


From The Ashes

by GilShalos1



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Politics, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-03-09 03:03:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 27,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18908209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen has come to King’s Landing in fire and blood. In the depths of the Red Keep, one man waits to die. Fix-it fic, spoilers for everything, diverts from canon in some ways. Takes a while to get to the pairing.





	1. Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> Post series fic, although starting in the last episode and making some changes to it. I may one day write a more comprehensive fix-it-fic in which Daenerys doesn’t go from grief to crazy to Westeros Hitler in four minutes of screentime, but this is not that fic, so be warned.  
> Also, there is a little bit of stuff that might be considered fourth-wall-breaking, but really only because having characters react naturally to the events of season 8 really demands it.  
> Only characters with significant roles (in this fic) are tagged.

 

It was dark.

It was dark, and he hurt.

For a while, that was all Jaime Lannister knew.

Slowly, his head began to clear, and memory returned. King’s Landing. The Red Keep.

Cersei.

“Cersei?” Jaime’s voice was little more than a rusty whisper. He worked his tongue against his teeth, summoning a little spit, and tried again. “Cersei?”

Silence.

He tried to move, but he was too firmly pinned by the bricks that had fallen from the ceiling. Bricks beneath him, too, sharp corners digging into his side. He’d thought, for a moment, that he might do it, he might really do it – that he might be fast enough to keep scrambling atop the crumbling masonry tumbling down on them, dodging each plummeting piece, dragging Cersei with him.

_But no._ OlennaTyrell had been right when she’d said loving Cersei would be the death of him. _Although I doubt even the Queen of Thorns had the foresight to predict the means would be a ceiling._ Cersei had been hampered by her skirts, and if Jaime alone might have managed the absurd feat, he couldn’t pull it off and help her at the same time.

“Cersei?” He shifted as much as he could, and his finger brushed something soft. Cloth, perhaps her arm. There was no warmth beneath it, and Jaime knew he had failed at his one final task.

_So_. Nothing to do, then, but wait to die himself. It would be slow, Jaime knew: for all Euron’s absurd boasts, Jaime had been wounded often enough before to know that neither of the Salt King’s blows would have been fatal, unless they festered. Perhaps he’d be lucky enough to bleed to death. That would be easier than dying of thirst.

The world around him came and went for a while, and Jaime let it. Eventually, unexpectedly, he heard footsteps. For a moment, he considered calling out. Death by dragonfire, however painful, would at least be quick, and leave him less time to contemplate his many, many mistakes …

_No. Fuck the Mad Queen. If I die here, perhaps they’ll never find my body. Perhaps she’ll always wonder if one day she’ll find my sword in her back and my dagger at her throat._

He lay still, but the footsteps came closer. A hand lifted a brick from him, and then another, and then there was suddenly light on the other side of his eyelids. Jaime lay still, and tried not to breathe. _I’m dead. One more dead Lannister. Move on_.

A low sob echoed through the ruined chamber, and then another, and Jaime Lannister opened his eyes to see his brother Tyrion rocking and keening in grief.

It was harder to speak now than it had been hours ago, but Jaime licked his lips, and tried. “Tyrion. Little brother.”

Tyrion’s head snapped up. “Jaime?” He crawled forward over Cersei’s body. “Jaime! You’re alive!”

Jaime gave him a tired smile. “The cleverest Lannister, as usual,” he whispered.

Shifting the bricks still covering Jaime aside as fast as he could, Tyrion shook his head. “The stupidest Lannister, as it turns out. I have been wrong about just about everything. Do you know what happened?”

“The Red Keep was coming down around our ears, I guessed.” Jaime coughed, closing his eyes against the pain it caused him. “Did anyone get out?”

“Of the Keep?” Tyrion finished freeing Jaime’s torso and moved down to his legs. “Or the city? I believe a few people might have made it out of the city.”

Jaime opened his eyes and stared at his brother. “She burned the city?”

“Quite as comprehensively as her father might have wished,” Tyrion said grimly. “With the difference, of course, being that the Mad King was mad enough to burn a city to deny it to his enemies, while our Queen apparently prefers to burn cities to deny them to herself.”

“That makes no sense.” Jaime managed to raise himself on his elbow and helped Tyrion remove the last bricks.

“The world makes no sense now, apparently. Can you stand?”

Jaime tried, and with Tyrion’s help achieved his feet. “The boat …”

“Yes. You must take it. I hope Davos’s friend is still waiting, but if he isn’t, you must get as far away from the city as you can.”

“ _We_ ,” Jaime corrected him. “We must get as far away from the city as we can.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Can you walk?”

Jaime limped a few steps, with Tyrion’s support. “A little. Not to the shore. Little brother, you must come with me. That woman will kill you for freeing me.”

“And it’s time I answer for my crimes,” Tyrion said. “This way. There’s a place I think you can stay hidden – I’ll send someone down. If I can. If I can’t – you must crawl to the boat, if needs be.”

Jaime stopped, forcing Tyrion to stop as well. “Your crimes? _I_ deserve to live, and not you? I pushed a child from a tower, I –”

“If you haven’t brought about the death of a hundred thousand people and the maiming of twice that many, stop talking.” Tyrion’s voice was very quiet, but there was an edge to it that Jaime had never heard. “I chose to trust her. I chose to close my heart to any doubts. I chose to betray Varys rather than help him. I chose this ending for King’s Landing and for the innocent people of the city. And I choose to face that. It is the honourable thing to do. Come on.”

A hundred limping paces, and Tyrion lowered Jaime to sit in an alcove along a side-tunnel.

“I will try to find someone to help you,” he said. “It may not be possible.”  

 “Tyrion, stay.” Jaime reached out to grasp his brother’s arm. “Please.”

Tyrion gave him a rueful smile. “You, she will presume immolated along with countless others. Me, she will order hunted. You cannot be safe with me, big brother. But alone …” He covered Jaime’s hand with his own. “Grow your beard and your hair, affect an eyepatch, learn to talk like a commoner. And for the Seven Gods’ sake, throw your golden hand into the sea.”

“And go where?” Jaime asked. “And do what? Will the North welcome me back, after I betrayed them? And if they did, how safe is Winterfell now dragonfire rules the seven kingdoms again?”

“Go to Tarth,” Tyrion said. “You are a wounded soldier, with news for the Evenstar of his daughter. The Queen will never think of Tarth. No-one thinks of Tarth.”

“I think of Tarth all the time,” Jaime objected.

Tyrion gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m unsurprised. Go to Tarth. Or somewhere else. Bravos, Pentos – just go.” He stood up, pulling his arm free of Jaime’s grip.

“Tyrion –” Jaime said urgently. “Come with me. Don’t go and die for – for what? Your guilt? That woman’s idea of justice?”

“My own,” Tyrion said gravely. He looked down, and then met Jaime’s gaze and smiled. “We’ve parted for all time once already. Let’s not revisit it, frankly I don’t think I could bear to.”

Jaime raised himself up to wrap his arms around his small brother, and Tyrion’s arms were immediately around Jaime’s neck. It was exactly like every embrace from their childhood – instant, unhesitating love. _But we are men, now. So much has changed, so much, and yet this – this is still the same._ “My brother,” Jaime said, unable to control his voice and not trying to. “The bravest, and most honourable, Lannister.”

Tyrion gave a sob of laughter. “My brother. The kindest Lannister.”

He tore himself away, and in a moment, was gone.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's perspective on the immediate aftermath, and an unexpected request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these chapters are quite short, I break at a POV shift and do that where it feels natural. Since most of this is things that happen 'off-screen' it often feels natural to me to break at a point where I'd end up just retyping on-screen dialogue.

There was ash everywhere.

Ash, and the smell of charcoal and charred flesh.

The smoke from the burning of King’s Landing obscured the sun.

It was all Jon Snow had been able to do to put one foot in front of the other. Everywhere his gaze had fallen, there had been bodies, blacked and shrunken in death. Or bodies who were still living, but not for long, skin scorched off, stumbling in a shocked daze.

_We did this_.

He had walked battlefields strewn with carnage, heard the screaming of wounded and dying men, seen the fallen stacked high, and yet, somehow, the eerie silence of King’s Landing was more horrifying than a thousand screams. The only sound was the crackling of the fires still burning.

And now he was standing at the top of the stairs, watching Queen Daenerys addressing her triumphant troops. She stood straight and proud, the white of her hair the same sharp contrast to her black robe as the white ash drifting through the air made as it settled on the blackened shells of burnt out buildings. Daenerys spoke to her men in their own language, and Jon could only guess at what she was telling them. From the tone, it was not an apology – but she was a queen, and they were her soldiers, and she had to be strong before them. He himself had learned those hard lessons.

A hand touched his, and he looked sideways and then down to see Lord Tyrion, Hand of the Queen.

“Send someone you trust into the Keep,” the dwarf said quietly and quickly. “Through Maegor’s Holdfast, down the stairs at the back, down all the way. My brother is there, injured. Save him. Please.”  

Jon gaped at him. “Your – why would I –”

“ _Please_ ,” Tyrion said. “He fought for your home. He tried to stop this. Can you honestly say he was on the wrong side?”

Jon pursed his lips, and then nodded. “I’ll send someone.” He looked back at Daenerys as he heard her say _Winterfell._ “What’s she saying?”

“Listing the places she will liberate, now she has liberated King’s Landing.”

“ _Liberated_!”

With one final touch to Jon’s hand, Tyrion walked forward. A few words passed between him and the Queen, and then Tyrion tore the badge of the Hand from his coat and flung it away with all his strength. As he was led away under guard, he gave one last look at Jon. _Please_ , that look said.

Daenerys swept past him with barely a glance, with no indication that she felt as he did – heartsick and horrified at the wholesale murder of a city. Jon stared after her as she stalked into the ruins of the Red Keep.

When he turned away, Arya stood beside him.


	3. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya says 'not today' to death.

 

It wasn’t easy for Arya to find the things she knew she’d need, not in a King’s Landing mostly scorched to cinders. Her brother’s battle camp – _cousin, he’s my cousin_ – was well outside the city walls, but it didn’t take long for Arya to realise that was her best chance.

“What are you doing here?” Ser Davos Seaworth’s gruff voice came from behind her, and his hand settled on her shoulder. When Arya turned, he scowled down at her. “Seven Hells, my lady, where are you hurt?”

“I’m not, not really,” Arya said.

“You are, you know. Here.” Davos took a canteen from his belt and a square of cloth from his pocket. “Hold still. Let me get some of this blood off and see what’s what.”

“I’m in a hurry,” Arya said.  

“Then I’ll be quick.” The old smuggler’s touch was surprisingly gentle as he wiped Arya’s temple clean. “Looks like you took a bad knock there. I can’t see any bone, though, that’s good.” He tucked the damp cloth back in his pocket and offered her the canteen. “Clear your throat, and tell me what you’re in such a hurry for. Maybe I can help.”

Arya took a long drink, only then realising how thirsty she had been. “There’s a wounded man.” _Best not mention who._ “Jon asked me to help him. I need bandages, wine or vinegar, food, water …”

“Well, that’s easy, my lady.” Davos pointed to a slab of fallen masonry. “Sit yourself down and rest, and it will come to you. I have men bringing supplies from the camp to help those we can still help, and all those things will be with them.”

“Thank you.” Arya sat.

Davos sat beside her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She shook her head. “Not really. Bruises. I’ve had worse training.” She looked around. “What are you going to do? How can anyone do anything to help, in all this?”

Davos shrugged. “You start where you are and go on from there. Bandage those as need it, feed those who are hungry, and hold the hands of the dying. Look, here they come.” He stood up. “Stay there, my lady, and I’ll see you provisioned.”

He was as good as his word, returning in a few moments with a sack.

Arya took it. “Thank you, Ser Davos.”

“We’ll be setting up an infirmary as soon as we find a place. Bring your wounded man there.”

“I will if I can,” Arya said.

Slinging the sack over her shoulder, she headed back through the scorched streets to the Red Keep. The guards let her pass through the gate, although they watched her carefully until she turned away from the Great Hall and towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

_Stairs at the back and all the way down_. Arya though she knew where Jon had meant, the caverns she had found once before. She almost smiled at the thought that here she was, retracing steps she’d taken when the Lannisters were the enemy, to save one of the Lannisters. A candle-lantern lay beside a crushed table, and Arya picked it up. She didn’t have to search for flint and steel to light it, because they were always in her pocket.   

Jon had been surprised at how quickly Arya had agreed to help. _But he’s a life. A person alive who will die if I don’t help him._

Turning back at Sandor’s words had been self-preservation, choosing her own life over revenge. But scrambling through city streets awash with fire and blood, buildings crumbling around her and bodies bleeding and blackened all around, Arya had chosen life – not just her own life, but _life_ , life as the antithesis of the horror all around her, life as the ultimate way to tell the god of death _not today_.

She had learned to give the Many Faced God the deaths he was owed. From today, she would use those skills to steal back the lives that did not belong to him.

She found the tunnels with the dragon skulls after squirming through some tight spots, and picked her way through the rubble. “Hello?” A few more steps and the wavering light of her lantern revealed the face of Cersei Lannister. Arya knelt, and touched her cheek. Quite cold. Quite dead. Sandor had been right.

There was only one way out and she took it, moving cautiously. “Hello? I’m a friend. Tyrion sent me.”

“I’m here,” a hoarse voice answered.

Arya followed the sound and found Jaime Lannister slumped against the wall of the tunnel, looking very much as if a large portion of a castle had fallen on him.

He raised his head and squinted against the light. “Lady Arya? Here to finish the Lannisters, once and for all?”

Arya crouched beside him, and set the lantern down. “Jon asked me to help you, so I’m helping you.”

“Jon Snow? Not Tyrion?”

“Tyrion asked Jon.” She paused. “Your brother is under arrest.” She put the sack down and opened it. “Where are you hurt?”

“Here.” Moving slowly and painfully, Jaime began to unfasten his jacket with one hand.

After a few seconds, Arya leaned forward and took over for him. The blood-stains on his shirt were from two wounds, and Arya drew her knife.

Jaime took a sharp breath. “Is that –”

“Yes, this is it,” Arya said. _The dagger that killed the Night King_. Today, though, she turned it to more prosaic purposes, slicing through Jaime’s shirt so she could see the damage beneath. Two stab wounds, both deep. “Someone was really trying to kill you.”

Jaime surprised her with a chuckle. “Trying, yes.”

Arya rummaged in the sack and found the vinegar Davos had provided. “This will hurt.”

“I’m aware,” Jaime said grimly.

He didn’t scream, but Arya had to close her ears to the groans that escaped his clenched teeth as she cleaned the wounds as best she could and then bandaged them.  “You’ll need a maester. Deep wounds like that can easily turn.”

“Do you have one in that sack?” Jaime asked.

 “If we can get out of the city alive, we’ll find one. Take off your hand, and –”

Above them, a mighty screech, the sound of a dragon roaring. It shook the stones beneath them. Dust fell from the ceiling and with a speed that surprised her, Jaime seized Arya’s arm and dragged her close to him, crushing her to his chest. Her first instinct was that he was inexplicably attacking her, but before she could give him a third stab wound Jaime hunched forward. He was a tall man, although not as tall as Sandor Clegane, and the dust and scraps of brick fell on his shoulders and his back and not on her.

The sound died, and the stones stilled. Jaime sat up and released her. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Arya said sharply. “I’m not a little girl.”

He gave her a tired smile. “I know. But I swore an oath to your mother, once. My freedom, for your safety. So I’m obliged to try and protect you, whether you need it or not.”

“I nearly stabbed you,” Arya said. “And I’d do a decent job of it. Don’t startle me again.”  

 “Understood.”

She sat back on her heels. “I don’t think there’s any way out of here without going back through the Red Keep. How many of the Unsullied know you by sight?”

“Hopefully not too many.” Jaime tugged at the straps holding his golden hand to his wrist, freed it and tossed it in the sack. “There are other entrances to the tunnels, but I don’t know where they are, or even if those tunnels still exist.”

Arya slung the sack over her shoulder and helped him to stand. “We might be able to find a cloak for you in the Holdfast. If not, you’ll just have to keep your head down and be one more wounded soldier.”

Jaime leaned on her. “I’ll try.”


	4. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Arya make their way out of the tunnels.

Crawling through the narrow gap at the top of the pile of rubble blocking their way out was painful, but limping up the hundreds of stairs to the Red Keep left Jaime swaying, his vision blurred by the sweat running into his eyes.

“Wait,” he panted. “I need to rest.”

Arya lowered him down to sit on the steps and Jaime put his head between his knees. As the pounding of his pulse eased and the roaring in his ears subsided, he could hear shouts echoing down the tunnel from above.

“Something’s going on,” he said.

“Yes.” Arya gazed upwards. “Wait here. I’ll go and see.”

She left him the sack, but took the lantern with her. Jaime found the canteen of water in the sack by touch and sat in the dark, sipping cautiously. He was still too far down to hear any words in the noise from above, but there was an angry note in the voices echoing against the stone walls.

Arya moved so silently that it was only the brightening of the light from her lantern that let Jaime knew she was returning. She crouched beside him.

“It’s good. And bad,” she said. “Jon killed the queen. He’s under arrest. The Unsullied want to slaughter him, our men will fight to defend him, and the Dothraki are nowhere to be seen.”

Jaime gaped at her. “Jon Snow, killed his queen? _Jon Snow_?” He began to laugh. “Seven Hells, the honourable Ned Stark’s son turned Queenslayer?”

“He had to,” Arya said sharply. “You didn’t hear what she sounded like, after. She wasn’t going to stop. Jon couldn’t put his oath ahead of innocent lives.”

And gods, it was too much. Jaime laughed until his ribs ached. Arya angrily shouting at him that _he did the right thing_ only made him laugh harder. He laughed until he wept, until the laughter turned to hard sobs and he was simply weeping, huddled on the steps of a hidden corridor in a destroyed Keep, weeping for Cersei and himself, for the things he’d done and failed to do.

Eventually the hysteria burnt itself out and he was able to compose himself. He wiped his face with his sleeve and raised his head. “Apologies, my lady.”

Arya was studying him, head tilted a little to the side, but she made no comment, and, Jaime hoped, passed no judgement. “We’d better go,” she said. “I need to get to Jon, and you need to get as far away from here as you can. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble – no-one cares about Lannisters anymore.”

Jaime hauled himself to his feet with Arya’s help. “My brother, Tyrion. If you can – if he’s still alive, can you keep him safe, as well?”

Arya blew out an impatient breath, hurrying him up the stairs. “All of a sudden I’m charged with the well-being of everyone left in your family?”

“He’s my brother,” Jaime said. “Lady Arya.”

“And Jon’s mine,” she said. “If I have to choose between them …”

Jaime nodded. “I would do the same. Only, if you can, if there is something you can do.”

Ahead of them, thin daylight lit the archway. Arya helped Jaime up the last few steps and deposited him on the nearest chair. “I’ll try. You’ll have to make your own way from here. There are people trying to help the wounded, Northerners. They probably don’t know you switched sides, even if they recognise you, so try and find them.”

Jaime nodded. “Thank you.”

“Good luck,” Arya said, and sped away, silent and fast.


	5. Davos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey Worm does not take the death of his queen well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This steps back in time a little to the middle of the last chapter. A bit of attempted plot-hole spackle and filling in stuff we never saw on-screen. Some of it may be canon-unfriendly or clumsy, if you let me know I’ll do my best to fix.

 

At the first scream of the dragon, Davos had looked up. As the creature’s mighty roar of fire rolled beneath the clouds from the centre of the Red Keep itself, he dropped the sack he was unloading and run as fast as his old legs would carry him towards the Red Keep. “With me!” he shouted at every Northerner he saw. “With me, lads, for the North!”

_She’s done it. She’s only bloody gone and done it._

He’d hoped and feared and wondered, since that horrendous moment when the Dragon Queen had turned on the city she had already conquered. _Fire and blood_. Those were the Targaryen words, and from that moment Davos had known there were only two ways this would end – in fire, or in blood.

Had known it again when Jon Snow had looked at the devastation around him and said he had to find the queen.

And it was fire, apparently. Dragonfire in the Keep must surely mean that Daenerys had turned her wroth on the Warden of the North.

What an old fool carrying a sword he had no business trying to use was going to do about it, Davos wasn’t sure, but it was going to be bloody something.   

“With me!” he shouted again, as the vast shape of the queen’s last dragon rose into the sky and headed out to sea, and then had to save his wind for running. Fortunately, other – younger – men took up the shout, and by the time Davos was climbing the steps of the Red Keep two at a time he had nearly a hundred men at his back. They ran across the courtyard toward the Great Hall.

Five Unsullied soldiers stepped into their path. “The Queen wishes to be alone.”

Davos looked beyond them to see Jon Snow making his way down toward them. It had been blood, then, and not fire. He sucked in one breath of relief, but the space of one breath was all he allowed himself.  

Jon Snow might be alive, but how long for was still a real question.

The Unsullied turned at the soft crunch of Jon’s boots in the ash. “Does the queen wish for us?”

“No.” Jon stopped in front of them. The ash and dirt on his face was streaked with tears. “She’s –”

Davos reached past the Unsullied guards, grabbed Jon’s arm and snatched him past them. “Flown away,” he said, pushing Jon behind him into the heart of the Northern soldiers. “On her dragon. Like she does, from time to time.”

“No, she –”

“Shut your mouth, lad,” Davos said. “There’s a time and place for things.” He looked back over his shoulder and hissed, “Do you want to get your men killed?”

Jon hesitated, and then shook his head.

“We’ll be going now,” Davos said. At his gesture, the men of the North began to retreat back towards the stairs. In good order, Davos was pleased to see, Jon’s orders last year about training having paid off. Jon stumbled with them, seeming only half-aware.

They had almost made it when a great shout went up behind them, in one of the languages of Essos.

“Shit,” Davos said.

“Guard rear!” came the cry from behind him.

“Form up!” Davos bellowed. “Double square!”

King Stannis’s men would have been faster, but the Northerners managed a very creditable performance, making a square two men deep with Davos and Jon inside it. The men on the outer row stood braced, ready to parry; the men on the inside row held their swords ready to thrust past the shoulders of their comrades.

It was in no way going to do the least bit of good, of course. Double their number of Unsullied were surrounding them, and there were only so many spears any swordsman could chop before one took him through the ribs.

Davos had picked up a little of the other languages of spoken in their armies on the march south, but not much beyond _please_ and _thank you_ and _excuse me, is that your horse?_ Whatever the Unsullied were saying to each other, though, the tone didn’t bode well for the rest of them.

He saw Grey Worm and pushed his way into the front row of the square to face him. “What’s going on?”

“The queen is gone. The throne of swords is gone. There is blood on the floor.” Grey Worm looked past Davos. “Tell us what happened, Jon Snow.”

“Queen Daenerys is dead,” Jon said. “Drogon melted the Iron Throne.”

Grey Worm barked an order and the Unsullied spears snapped to level. “How did she die?”

Davos glanced over his shoulder to see Jon shake his head wearily. “You know how she died.”

“You swore loyalty to her! You knelt to her!”

“Aye, she was my queen. I swore to put her on the Iron Throne, and I did. She said she wanted to make a better world, and I believed her. She said she wanted people to be free from tyrants, and I believed her.” Jon shrugged. “Look around. Does this look like a better world, to you? Do these people look free? Is that what freedom looks like, in Essos?”

“It is for future generations,” Grey Worm said fiercely.

“There will _be_ no future generations for the people of this city,” Davos pointed out. “How free are the grandchildren of the people burned in the street?”

“They had a choice,” the Unsullied commander said.

“Aye,” Jon said. “They had a choice. They chose _her_ , Queen Daenerys. They chose _surrender_. And they died, anyway.”

Grey Worm’s jaw clenched. “You are a traitor. I sentence you to die!”

It was difficult not to show fear in the face of levelled Unsullied spears, but Davos Seaworth did his best. “Now look, you know how this is going to go,” he said to Grey Worm.  “There’s an army of Northerners in this city, not just us here, whose loyalty is to Jon Snow. If you kill him, they’ll start killing your men.”

Grey Worm’s face was stony. “Let them try.”

“Oh, your men will fight back. The Dothraki will probably fight everybody. A lot of men will die. And if you win, you kill us all and survive, every Lord in the land will call their banners and march on you as soon as the word gets out.”

“We will not fight you, unless you make us. Why would your Lords care for the death of a traitor?”

“Look around you, lad –”

“I am not your _lad_. I am the Master of War to Queen Daenerys.”

“It’s a figure of speech, I mean no disrespect. Grey Worm. Master of War. Look around. Look what the queen did. Not what your men, and ours, aye, did in the heat of the battle, sacking a city is an ugly business. But there are children turned to charcoal. Prisoners were slaughtered like livestock. Queen Daenerys might have come to take back her throne from a usurper, but she did it with a foreign army at her back and she laid waste to the largest city in the Seven Kingdoms in a way not seen since the conquest.”

“They were her enemies. Is it wrong, in Westeros, to kill your enemies? I don’t think so.”

“They were not _all_ her enemies. They were people, common people, trying to live and be safe and raise their children. They surrendered to her, and she killed them. And now she’s gone, and her dragon is gone, and you’re alone in a foreign land in the ashes of what she did. Kill Jon Snow, and you lose the only hostage that will keep you alive when the word gets out.”

“I do not fear death,” Grey Worm said.

“Well, I do. And I fear war, lad – Master of War. I fear the Dothraki without a leader and with no ships to take them home, riding across this land to rape and plunder. I fear burnt farmsteads and slaughtered families and I fear the famine that will kill millions as the fields burn. Is that what Queen Daenerys would want? For countless people who never did anything against her to die? Masters and servants, lords and kitchen-maids, men and women and little children, put to the sword or starving?” Grey Worm’s spear lifted a little, and Davos pressed his advantage. “She never gave me that impression. She brought you North to fight for the living because she _cared_ for the people. She offered peace to Queen Cersei, to better fight for the people. We have to settle this with words, or her legacy will be the greatest disaster that ever fell on the Seven Kingdoms.”

The spear tip lifted a little more. “Hold him hostage, you say. I will not hand him over to his freedom just to spare my life.”

“I’m not saying hand him over,” Davos said quickly. “He must face justice, as must Lord Tyrion. But after a trial. Justice, not vengeance. The Lords of Westeros will accept justice, even if means death for him, but take vengeance on him without a trial and you’ll unleash disaster.”   

Grey Worm ground his teeth, and then turned and barked a command. The ranks of the Unsullied parted in a perfect unison that was rather terrifying to watch. “You will take him to the place we have confined the traitor dwarf. Four of your men, and four of our men, will stand guard.”

Davos sighed in relief. “Agreed. And the Dothraki?”

“Her bloodriders will die to avenge her.”

“How many of them speak our language?”

“None that I know of,” Grey Worm said.

“Then let’s not tell them until we work out a plan, eh?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s not super realistic that not a single Dothraki spoke enough of the common tongue to gather what was going on if they were close enough to overhear, but I’m trying to solve the problem of why the bloodriders didn’t avenge Daenerys or die trying.


	6. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An imprisoned Tyrion gets a cellmate, and a visitor.

Tyrion looked up as the door of the makeshift cell opened. Jon Snow staggered through, propelled by a hard shove. He caught himself against the wall as the door slammed shut behind him, and then sank slowly to the floor.

Tyrion waited. Jon gave him one glance, and then turned his face to the wall. Even that glimpse, agony clear in every line of Jon’s face, was enough to tell Tyrion what had happened.

Almost enough. “Did you do it?”

Jon nodded mutely, face still pressed against the brick.

Tyrion sank back against the wall and closed his eyes, surprised at how little he felt. Oh, he mourned Daenerys Stormborn, but he had been mourning her since the first blast of dragonfire after the bells of surrender rang out. In that moment he had realised that the woman he had believed in, and served, and loved, was no more. He couldn’t believe she had never existed in the first place, but nor could he believe she rode on Drogon’s back as the great dragon turned children to ash.

It was selfish, but Tyrion had to ask. “My brother?”

“I sent someone.”

“Thank you.”

Jon made a sound that might have been a laugh, or it might have been a sob. “He’ll outlive both of us, likely.”

“As will your sisters, and your brother,” Tyrion said. “As will several million people who otherwise wouldn’t have, for that matter.”

Jon shook his head silently.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion said. “For what’s that worth. I’m truly sorry. For my part in it all, and for not being able to end it myself.”

“I was as wrong about her as you were,” Jon said hoarsely.

The door opened again, and Tyrion braced himself. _Now comes the execution_.

But it was Arya Stark who slipped inside, closing the door behind her. “Jon?”

Jon reached out one hand towards her without turning away from the wall. Arya took it and sat down beside him. She put her other arm around his shoulders and Jon turned to her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her shoulder.

Tyrion gave them the privacy of looking away, but he couldn’t close his ears to Jon’s hard, racking sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said at last, voice thick. “Will you tell Sansa and Bran –”

“Tell them yourself,” Arya said.

“Arya …”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Neither of us is likely to live very much longer, Lady Arya. The Unsullied and the Dothraki –”

“Nobody is killing you,” Arya said firmly. “Or you, Lord Tyrion. Not before a trial.”

Tyrion smiled. “A trial by the Unsullied for betraying or killing the woman who freed them from slavery? As I said, neither of us is likely to live very much longer.”

“Ser Davos is negotiating with Grey Worm right now,” Arya said. “He’s arguing that the trial has to be held according to Westeros laws.” She gave a small smile. “He’s quite a good arguer.”

Jon frowned. His grip on Arya eased a little, and he sat up. “Why would they agree to that?”

“Because there are Seven Kingdoms, and this is just the crownlands. Your men are between them and the ships, and the Dothraki and Unsullied don’t know how to sail them, anyway. They have the city, but not enough supplies to hold it long. If they don’t give you a fair trial, Ser Davos is telling them, all the Lords will call their banners and march on them.”

Jon snorted. “And they believe him? As far as the fat southern lords are concerned, I’m a bastard, a deserter from the Night’s Watch, the conqueror of Winterfell, and the man who brought a northern army to attack King’s Landing.”

“That might be true,” Tyrion said. “Today. But if Lady Sansa heard about your death, a flock of ravens would depart Winterfell. You would be astonished at how quickly you would become the Warden of the North, defender of the living, avenger of Bolton cruelties, slayer of the Dragon Queen and defender of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let them kill me.”

Arya wrapped her arms more tightly around him. “You’re my brother. I don’t care about the rest of it, you’ve been my brother since the day I was born and you’ll never stop being my brother. You were the only one who understood me, and I don’t care about the Unsullied and I don’t care how shit you feel right now. It does matter, and they _won’t_ kill you.”

Tyrion had to look away, blinking hard. _My brother since the day I was born._ He cleared his throat and hoped his voice was under control. “Lady Arya, my own brother is –”

“I sent him to the infirmary tent,” Arya said. “I couldn’t go with him. Jon’s my brother.”

_Still alive, then._ Tyrion nodded. “I understand. Thank you.”

 


	7. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister faces consequences.

The fever came upon him on the second day, and for a while, Jaime Lannister knew nothing but pain and nightmares. The maesters held him down and poured boiling wine on his wounds and he screamed at the pain of it and then fell back into a darkness lit only by Brienne’s flaming sword. Yet always, she left him – or was he leaving her – regardless, distance grew between them no matter how he called her name. _Brienne, Brienne, Brienne…_ She didn’t answer, she didn’t turn, she was gone from him and he wept helplessly and begged her to return. _Brienne, Brienne, Brienne …_

But she would not, and she was right. She was all that was honourable, she was a true Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and she needed to be far from him, far and away, far enough away that his own shit-dipped honour couldn’t soil her. This was the end for him, raving with wound-fever among people who didn’t know his name, and that was right, that was fitting, that was just. Brienne of Tarth would go on, shining in the darkness.

Jaime had long thought there was only one thing he had ever done right in his life, cutting the throat of Aerys Targaryen. He was content to die knowing there had, in fact, been two. _Arise, Brienne of Tarth_ …

Somewhere outside the fever dream he floated in, he could hear voices.  “He’s here, ser. We don’t know who he is, but he keeps calling for you.”

A sharp intake of breath, and then, the voice he most wanted to hear. “Jaime?” Brienne of Tarth said. The cot he lay on shifted painfully, and calloused fingers touched his cheek. “Jaime?”

Jaime managed to open his eyes and she was there, as he longed for her to be, her eyes bluer than the bluest sky. He swallowed, and managed, “Brienne.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, tears he didn’t have the strength to wipe away. She leaned forward to press her forehead against his. “Jaime. Jaime.”

“Are you here?” he whispered. “Or is this another dream?”

“I’m here,” she promised.

Brienne would never lie to him, not even in his imagination. She was here, with him, a moment of grace he had never believed possible. “Will you lift me up a little?”

Brienne didn’t hesitate. Her strong arm slid beneath his shoulders and raised him up, her other hand bracing him. “Is that better?”

“Yes.” Jaime chuckled. “I told Bronn once that this was how I wanted to die.”

Brienne took a sharp breath and froze. “You’re not going to die.”

“I think it’s likely.”

“I forbid it!” Brienne snapped. “Do you hear me? I am now Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and you are still a member of the Kingsguard – ”

“I’m not.”

“Fuck that. One king can’t overturn five hundred years of tradition. You’ll be Kingsguard until you die and that means you answer to me and I _forbid you to die_ , Jaime Lannister. Do you understand me?”

She looked so fierce he couldn’t help but laugh, no matter how the laughter hurt.  “Oh, Brienne, my Brienne. Men die. The darkness waits for us all.”

Warm water dripped on his face, tasting of salt when it trickled over his lips.  “Jaime, you may not die. You are not allowed to die.”

The determination in her voice almost made him think she could indeed command the Stranger. “I’ll try not to.”

“Try very hard,” Brienne said, and made him laugh again.

By the end of the day, she’d arranged to have him moved from the infirmary tent to a private one, with Podrick Payne and a servant girl to nurse him. For days – or weeks or months, for all Jaime could tell – they fought the fever that consumed him with cool cloths, forced him to swallow water and broth spoonful by spoonful, and held him down when he raved and called for his sword in delirium.  Sometimes it was Brienne’s strong, gentle hands that bathed and turned him, Brienne’s touch that soothed him, Brienne’s voice that reassured him. Sometimes she was angry and hurt, and turned away from him, walking into the darkness no matter how he called for her, but at other times she told him those were only fever dreams.

Jaime tried to believe her. He battled the despair that told him to surrender to the Stranger because Brienne no longer loved him, _could_ no longer love him, after what he’d said and what he’d done, as fiercely as he battled the fever. _I may not die. I am not allowed to die._

Still, he was surprised when the day came that he opened his eyes and realised his mind was clear and his skin was cool.

Brienne leaned against the side of his bed, head resting on her folded arms atop the coverlet. Jaime could tell from her breathing that she was asleep and he lay as still as he could so as not to wake her. _How many nights have I watched her sleep?_ When she was his captor, when they’d been captive together. The long nights at Winterfell when he’d been afraid to sleep because of the dreams of dead men marching and had watched over her, ready to rouse her from her own nightmares of cold hands and blue, blue eyes.     

_Now I am getting well, will she still visit me? Sleep by my bedside? Did I murder love as thoroughly as I tried, when I rode south to die?_

He reached out and brushed his fingers over her hair. “Brienne.”

She roused instantly, as she always did, years of travel in wartime drilling instinct deep in her bones. The face she raised to him was marked with fatigue and carried new lines of strain, but her astonishing eyes were still blue enough to make the summer sky envious.

“Jaime.” Brienne raised herself from the floor where she’d been kneeling and sat on the side of the bed. She touched his face. “Your fever’s gone.”

Jaime sighed in disappointment as she withdrew her hand. “So it seems. How long has it been?”

“Three weeks here, and it was four weeks before I found you.” Brienne drew down the covers and Jaime looked down to see more bandages than his wounds should have required. “Let me check your wounds.”

“Tyrion? Is he …”

“He’s well. He’s been here, quite often.”

Removing the bandages revealed long incisions that Jaime didn’t remember Euron inflicting. “What …?”

“Samwell Tarly suggested cutting you open. He said it might kill you, but at that point there wasn’t really any other way to save your life.” Brienne’s hands on his healing wounds were as gentle as ever. “I’ll fetch a maester, but these feel cool as well.”

As she began to stand, Jaime grabbed her arm. “Wait, Brienne, not yet. Stay with me.”

Brienne subsided, but the face she turned to him was cool and composed. “Do you want water? Or the chamber pot?”

“I want to talk.” Jaime wanted to take her hand, but feared that loosing her arm would see her immediately bolt for the door.

Brienne turned her face away from him. “I think we’ve said all we need to already, don’t you?”

_Please stay …_ and the sound of her wrenching sobs as he rode away. “No, I don’t think that. I don’t think that at all. I think I’ve said too much, and too little, and the wrong things. Brienne.” Jaime tightened his grip on her arm. “Look at me, please. _Please._ ”

She did, beautiful eyes brimming with tears. “You hurt me, Jaime, very badly.”

“I know.”

“You loved that woman enough to die for her, and me too little –” Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. “You told me that you loved me, and you made me _believe_ you, and it was all a game, like Hyde, like the others.”

“Never doubt I love you,” Jaime said urgently. “Never doubt that, whatever else you think of me.”

“Then _why_?” Brienne demanded. She pulled her arm from his grip and stood, glowering down on him. “Why leave me? Why leave me that way?”

Excuses swam through his mind. _No. Of anyone in the world who deserves truth, Brienne does._ “Because I am a coward. Because it’s a long road south from Winterfell and I am weak. Because if you and I parted on good terms there was no way I would have kept to my intention.”

She blew out an angry huff of breath. “You are an _idiot_!”

“Yes, I always was the stupidest Lannister,” Jaime agreed.

Brienne sat down on the edge of the bed again. Even angry as she was, she was careful to move gently enough that Jaime wasn’t jostled. “That’s nonsense. You’re not stupid, just idiotic. Idiotic enough to think for one moment coming to King’s Landing was a good idea. What were you planning to do, shout the dragon to death?”

“I had no plan,” Jaime admitted. “And you know, when they took me prisoner, I was relieved. I didn’t have to do anything, after all. I’d done my best, and failed. But Tyrion … he thought I could talk Cersei into surrender. Into escape.”

“You had no plan.” Brienne shook her head. “No plan beyond ‘die beside my sister’. After everything she’d done, everything she’d done _to you_. You still loved her, that much.”

“She was my sister, my twin. If your brother were facing death, wouldn’t you want to –”

“Die? No,” Brienne said sharply. “I’d want to live. To get justice, if his death had been other than an accident. And because life has value, Jaime. The things we do _matter_. We can do _good_ as long as we’re alive. The dead achieve nothing.”

“ _Your_ life, perhaps,” Jaime said. “But I have done … so many things, Brienne. Dying with Cersei was only what I deserved.”

“If you weren’t so ill I’d take you to the training yard and thrash you for saying that.” Brienne’s voice was fierce. “You made terrible choice and did terrible things, yes, but you also did good, and you can do more. You saved my life, at Harrenhal, at Winterfell. Did you care so little for me that you’d rather throw your life away with your sister’s than guard my flank in the battles to come?”

Jaime had to look away from the brightness of her eyes. “You deserve better,” he whispered. “Better than a one-handed-man to fight beside you, better than a man like me in your life.”

“And yet I chose you, and strangely enough, Jaime, I’m able to make my own decisions. And you chose _her_.”

“I couldn’t not,” Jaime admitted. “It was the hardest thing in my life to ride away from her and the easiest thing in the world to ride back. As easy as falling off a cliff.”

Brienne was silent a moment. “You see, that’s the problem,” she said at last, so softly Jaime could barely hear her. “You feel about her the way I feel about you. But I’ll never be to you what she was.” She stood up. “And I won’t be what you settle for. I’ll fetch the maester, and tell Tyrion and Pod you’re awake.”


	8. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small council meets, and talks about more than brothels.

 

“I think we can all agree that ships take precedence over brothels,” Brienne said forbiddingly.  

“I think that’s a very presumptuous statement,” Lord Bronn of Highgarden said.    

Lord Tyrion leaned back in his chair. “I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel.”

Brienne glared at him. “I’m not really interested in your adventures in brothels. I vote ships.”

“As do I,” Samwell Tarly said promptly.

“Aye,” Davos Seaworth added.

“Three out of five votes, ships it is,” Brienne said.

 “Fine,” Bronn said. “And when the men of King’s Landing riot over the lack of brothels, you can explain it to them.”

“Has there ever, in the history of anywhere, been a riot over lack of brothels?” Brienne asked scathingly.

“Two, I believe,” Tyrion said. “Although in both cases, there were existing brothels that the King of the time had closed down. I don’t think we need fear an angry mob coming for our heads over the matter quite yet.” He smiled. “Besides, in my experience, brothels tend to organise themselves, given an available vacant building. Or tent. Ser Brienne, how goes the Kingsguard?”

“We have four members, so far. One former member, if the king wishes to return to the days of service for life.”

“He does not,” Tyrion said. “Nor does he wish to maintain the strictures against marriage, or children, although any member of the Kingsguard who inherits land or title will have to leave the Kingsguard to take it up.”

“Four members, then. I will travel to the next large tourney and see if there are other suitable candidates.”

“Excellent,” Tyrion said. “Other business?”

“We have successfully rehoused around one third of those whose residences were destroyed,” Sam said. “The list of the missing is growing considerably shorter, as well. It’s taking some time for people to find their families, if they still have them.”

“It will eventually stop shrinking,” Davos said grimly. “And then we’ll have an idea of the number of nameless dead.”

“What’s the city’s population now, Grand Maester?” Tyrion asked.

“Approximately two hundred and fifty thousand, Lord Hand.”   

Davos raised his eyebrows. “So few?”

“Most of those who gathered here for safety have returned to their homes – those who survived, that is. Many went north, as well, with Queen Sansa.”

“There’s many a vacant place at table and hearth for them to fill,” Brienne said.

Tyrion nodded. “And better they be her problem to feed and house than ours. Others will come, when there’s food and shelter. There are always those who want the opportunities and advantages only cities can provide.”

“If I may, Lord Hand,” Brienne said. “The Gold Cloaks. Almost all were killed in the attack.”

“I’m aware,” Tyrion said grimly.

“There are reports of theft and assault both in the city and the camp outside. I believe we should make it a priority to appoint a Commander or Lord Commander to the Gold Cloaks and swell their ranks again.”

“We’ve run rather short of knights to recruit, what with the wars,” Tyrion said. “And traditionally, the master of laws –”

“Every day we delay, someone is the victim of a crime that didn’t need to happen,” Brienne said. “And if a shortage of knights is your problem, don’t recruit knights. We trained everyone to fight, at Winterfell, and there were many young men and young women who showed skill, once they had the opportunity to learn properly. Open the Gold Cloaks to all, and have those who wish to join judged by a master-at-arms used to spotting talent in students.”

Tyrion nodded. “Very well. Do you have anyone in mind, for either the Commander or the master-at-arms?”

“The Blackfish, for both,” Brienne said. “He is a man of honour, and loyalty, and King Brandon’s mother’s uncle.”

“Will he leave Riverrun, now the Tullys have it back, that’s the question,” Davos said.

“We can only ask,” Tyrion said. “I’ll send a raven. Now, Grand Maester Tarly, what do you think of the proposal that we establish houses of healing for the poor and indigent?”

And so it went, another tedious hour of it. Brienne couldn’t even put her thoughts elsewhere and let the details wash past her, because every decision was too important to be left to the likes of Lord Bronn. She longed to be in the training yard, instead, honing her skills, strengthening her arm … working until she was blinded by sweat and shaking with exhaustion and finally, finally, tired enough to sleep.  

Eventually, much to her relief, they were done. She rose immediately to her feet. “If you will excuse me –”   

“Ser Brienne, I have another matter to discuss with you,” Tyrion said. “Privately.”

He was the Hand of the King, and so Brienne was forced to sit down again, and wait while the others took their leave.    

Tyrion let the silence stretch.

“Lord Hand,” Brienne said at last. “This matter …?”

“My brother continues to mend,” Tyrion said.

“I have had reports,” Brienne said stiffly. “I am glad of it. His wounds were grievous. It is fortunate that he was so strong.”

“Strong, and determined to live,” Tyrion said. “You have had reports, you say. So it is true, what he says, that you haven’t been to see him.”

“I have been very busy –”

Tyrion leaned forward. “You sat by his bedside every moment you could spare for weeks. You _slept_ there. You washed him, you dressed his wounds, you held him down when he raved and you wept to do it. I know, Ser Brienne. I was there too. He lives, and mends, because _you_ pried him from the Stranger’s grip. And for more than a week, you haven’t been near him.” He reached out and laid his small hand over hers. “What did my idiot brother do, Ser Brienne? And is there any way I can mend it? Because he is miserable, truly miserable, and so are you, and I love him and admire you.”

“I think it’s past mending.” Brienne had to blink hard to clear her vision. “I think it was past mending when he rode south to be by his sister’s side.”

“He didn’t want to be with her, you know,” Tyrion said gently.

“He chose to be –”

“He was taken prisoner trying to cross enemy lines because his gold hand was recognised. Do you really think my brother forgot how gloves work?” Tyrion’s hand tightened over hers. “Some part of him didn’t want to reach her. Some part of him wanted to be stopped. When I freed him, I had to talk him into it.”

“Why did you?” Brienne blurted out. “Why did you _send_ him to her?”

“I thought he could get her to surrender.” Tyrion looked away. “As it turned out, surrender didn’t mean very much, in the end.” He squeezed her hand. “He has tempered our sister’s  worst impulses before. I think in part that was why he stayed by her for as long as he did.”

Brienne shook her head. “He stayed with her for the same reason he went back to her. Love.”

Tyrion snorted. “What was between my sweet sister and Jaime was never love, Ser Brienne. She told him it was, certainly, and he believed her, assuredly. She was the fair lady to his brave knight, and there was a time, believe me, when that was all my brother had to cling to. Many years, in fact.”

“After King Aerys …” Brienne bit her lip.

“After he was the most hated man in the Seven Kingdoms, yes,” Tyrion said. “You know, he never told her why he did it? He told me. I was ten. He was seventeen, my big brother, my protector, my hero. I was at my lessons in Casterly Rock, hardly knowing anything about the war except it blessedly kept my father far, far away, and the door burst open and Jaime was there. He ordered the maester teaching me away, shut the door, and he fell on his knees beside my chair and laid his head in my lap and wept as I’d never seen anyone weep before.” He paused. “Except me, of course, but I was a child. I’d cried in his arms many times, during my truly delightful childhood, and Jaime had held me, and told me that nothing was my fault, and that he loved me, and that things would be better. So I held him, with my weak little arms, and I told him that it wasn’t his fault, and that I loved him, and that things would be better. But the last one of those wasn’t true, as it turned out. Things weren’t better, they were worse, and worse, and worse again. And we were separated, for many years, and the only ones to call him by name were my fucking father and Cersei. He was despised, and reviled, and the one person with him who treated him as worth anything was my sister.”

Brienne realised that tears were streaming down her face and dripping onto the table. “It was not your fault,” she choked out, turning her hand upwards to hold his. “You were a child.”

“Ser Brienne.” Tyrion held her hand as tightly as she held his. “You have such a kind heart. Do you even know so? Please, be kind to my brother. Think of the boy hated by the world, whose only refuge was with the woman who pretended to care for him. Pretended, I promise you, because I know my family and I know that whatever Cersei felt for my brother when they were children, by the time they were grown, it was what he could do for her, and no more than that.”

“He loved her,” Brienne said. “It doesn’t matter if she loved him. He _loved_ her.” _More than me. He loved her more than me. He loved her enough to leave me, to leave me forever._

“He loved her, he hated her, he was captive to her – and he never told her the greatest truth of himself. Two people he confided that to, me – and you. Not Cersei.” Tyrion sighed. “Ser Brienne, I have never seen him look on any woman the way he looked on you at Winterfell, certainly not my sweet sister. I have never seen him so happy as he was at Winterfell. Except, perhaps, when he was a child, and I was a child, before he joined the Kingsguard.”

Brienne shook her head. “If that were true, he would never have left. He would never have ridden south.”

“How many times have you ridden away from my brother, no matter how you feel?” Tyrion asked. “I know at least twice, because he had told me, how each time he felt his heart dying to see you leave.”

“Once.” Brienne’s voice was thick, and she cleared her throat. “Once. The other time was by boat. Did he say that?”

“He did,” Tyrion said. “We had time to talk, at Winterfell.”

Brienne pulled her hand free from his. “And you talked about me?” She knew how men talked, she had lived in army camps.

“Not as you seem to think,” Tyrion said. “He was happy. It’s been a long time since he was happy, you know. He’s my brother, and I was very glad to know him happy.”

There was watered wine in a flagon on the table, and Brienne poured some into her goblet. “I’m glad you think he was happy, but if he was, why did he choose to go _back_ to … _her_.” She sipped the wine. “He said … it was the easiest thing he ever did, going back to her.”

Tyrion stretched to reach the other flagon, the _unwatered_ wine, and poured for himself. “I’ve heard it said that drowning is effortless, too, at the end. Men drawn out of the sea with water-logged lungs, slapped and pounded back to life, say that once you stop fighting and give in to it, it’s all very simple and very easy.”

Brienne nodded. She’d heard the same – grow up on an island, and there were more than a few near-drownings. And she’d asked, too, after Galladon.   _What was it like?_ _Does it hurt?_

Tyrion raised his goblet to her, and drank. “Jaime always liked to talk about how much he loved sweet Cersei, but although he can be as clever as any Lannister, in some ways he’s quite stupid.”

“He’s _not_ stupid,” Brienne protested immediately.

Tyrion chuckled. “No. But we all lie to ourselves as well as to others, don’t we? I certainly do. We’re sitting here in the middle of a city burned half to the ground because of the lies I told myself. We tell ourselves that we truly love the people we are too weak to leave. We tell ourselves we make a choice when, really, we have only failed to resist the pull of old habits.” He looked at Brienne over his goblet. “We tell ourselves that we have nothing but sincere admiration for the people we love with all our hearts.”

Brienne set her goblet down. “So your advice to me can be boiled down to, disbelieve the things your brother says to me with his own lips?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I can’t advise you, Ser Brienne. I can only ask you – be kind. It’s your nature, after all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Blackfish died on the show, but he died off-screen! And in the books he escapes.   
> I also know that show Jaime was approximately 20 when he killed King Aerys, but I’m going with book ages for all the characters there, instead. Despite the fact that book Jaime didn’t tell Tyrion about his reasons, because … I like it this way :P   
> Also, when Tyrion says "not as you seem to think", he's not lying, because I have erased from my canon the WTFery of Tyrion asking Jaime about Brienne's snatch.


	9. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne try to build bridges.

  

Left, and right, and left again, upward, downward, a hard crosscut that shook the training dummy nearly off its stake. Brienne’s arm ached, but she steadied herself, and set her stance to begin again. Left, and right, and –

“You’re signalling the crosscut,” a familiar voice called. “Keep your shoulders steady until the last moment.”

Brienne lowered her practice sword and turned. Jaime Lannister sat in a chair not unlike the one King Brandon used, one of the servant girls behind him. “Ser Jaime,” she said, voice as cool and formal as she could make it.

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime responded. “You’re raising your shoulder as you prepare for the crosscut. You don’t need to – it doesn’t give any extra strength to the stroke. Control it, and you’ll have a little more advantage.”

Brienne nodded crisply. “Thank you for your advice.”

Annoying, she quickly found that he was right. She glanced back at him, expecting a smug smile, but he was serious, watching her intently, as focused as when they’d sparred in the courtyard at Winterfell.

She swung at the dummy a few more times, and then turned. _Be kind_. “You never told me that at Winterfell.” Her voice came out cool and a touch sharp, but it was the best she could do.

Jaime smiled, just a little. “It’s rather easier to see when I’m not desperately trying to keep your sword from my throat.”

“How are you feeling?”

He gestured at the chair with his one good hand. “As you see. Mending by the day.” His gaze flicked beyond her to the training dummy, hacked to tatters. “You’re wise to get into the habit of practice early. Kingsguard see little fighting, except for tourneys. It’s easy to rust.”

Brienne nodded, rather than telling him the truth – she worked herself to exhaustion in the training yard simply because it was the only way she could be sure she’d sleep, at least a few hours. “I’d better get back to it, then.”

The next time she looked away from her practice, Jaime was gone.

But he was there again, the next day, offering the occasional comment or critique, and the day after, and the day after that. And suddenly Brienne realised one day that somehow, there was an easiness between them. Not the intimacy that had grown at Winterfell, but something closer to it than their old stiff courtesy or their new awkwardness. Brienne found herself arguing with him over some of his advice, and they would go back and forth over the details of old fights. There were tricks and tips that neither her father nor her father’s master-at-arms had known, but Jaime Lannister had trained with the greatest swordsmen of his time and he passed their knowledge on to Brienne generously, easily.

“I wish we could have met at a tourney, before it all,” Jaime said one evening, as Brienne was pushing his wheeled chair back to the room he’d been moved to. “I think you’d have given me a challenge, Ser Brienne.”

“I beat you once when you still had your right hand, I think I’d have been more than a challenge,” Brienne shot back.

Jaime chuckled. “I’d been chained for the better part of a year at that point and my hands were bound. You can’t call that a fair fight.”

“I can and I will,” Brienne said, turning him over to the care of the servants assigned to him. “I even put it in the White Book. Defeated Ser Jaime Lannister in single combat.”

“That is an abuse of your authority,” Jaime said, but there was laughter in his voice and Brienne was smiling as she strode away.

Another week, and Jaime was on his feet, if only for short periods and with a stout stick to support him.  He tottered back and forth in the training yard as Brienne and Podrick sparred, calling instructions – mostly to Podrick.

“Unfair,” Brienne said, the third time Jaime’s advice had nearly given Podrick a victory.

Jaime grinned at her. “Ah, so you wish all your fights to be fair ones?”

Brienne tossed her practice sword to her squire and began to unbuckle her training armour. “No, but I don’t anticipate my opponents having the advantage of you in their corner.”

“Pod needs my encouragement to give you a decent fight, and you won’t get better without a decent fight.” Jaime came closer to her, his steps careful and unsteady. “There aren’t many who can give you a contest on their own, these days, you know.”

Brienne passed the armour to her squire, as well. “You’ll just have to hurry up and get well.”

Jaime laughed, and raised his walking stick like a sword. He feinted, drew back. “Guard yourself, Ser Brienne!”

The next second his legs buckled beneath him. Brienne saw him beginning to fall and flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around him and bearing him up. “Jaime!”

“I’m alright,” he said, in a slurred voice that told her he was anything but. “I’m alright.”

“Podrick!” Brienne snapped as Jaime went completely limp in her grasp.

“Yes, ser.” Podrick was there, taking Jaime’s weight from the other side.

“Ease him down – don’t jostle his wounds –” Between them, they got Jaime prone on the packed dirt of the training yard. “Fetch Sam Tarly,” Brienne ordered, and Podrick ran. Brienne stooped over Jaime, cupping his cheek with her hand. “Jaime. Jaime, can you hear me? Jaime?”

His eyelashes fluttered. His lips moved, but without sound.

“Pod is fetching the maester. It’s alright, Jaime. Just be still.”

Jaime Lannister being Jaime Lannister, he ignored her, and raised his hand to grasp her wrist. “Brienne.”

“I’m here. Rest, Jaime. Be still.”

Jaime’s eyes opened, clear and green, and he smiled – a completely uncomplicated smile, as pure as a child seeing sunshine. “Brienne.”

“You’ve not been resting enough,” Brienne said, and couldn’t stop the tears spilling from her eyes. “Jaime. You can’t push yourself so hard. You were hurt, so badly hurt.”

“So you care?”

“Of course I care! How can you think I don’t _care_?” Brienne gasped for breath, something breaking inside her, as hard and sudden as a dam giving way before a spring flood. “You bastard! You utter cunt!” She pounded his shoulder with a clenched fist. “You left me, and you died, and then you tried to die, and you left me, and you loved her, you loved _her_ , and now you’re trying to die on me all over again, you fuck! You fucking fuck!”

“Ser Brienne,” Samwell Tarly’s perpetually deferential voice said. “Is Ser Jaime unwell?”

Brienne flung herself away from Jaime. “Tend to him,” she said thickly. As men gathered around Jaime’s prone form, Brienne forced herself to her feet, and stumbled away.  


	10. Jaime IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a place, neither near nor far, and a time, neither now nor then, there was a handsome knight ...

Jaime floated between sleep and waking, never quite touching either. Brienne struck him, again and again. _You left me, and you died, and then you tried to die, and you left me, and you loved her, you loved her …_

_Never as I loved you,_ he tried to say, but he was sinking, sinking, and she was fraying and fading above him. _Brienne, help me, hold me, I’m drowning, Brienne …_ it was dark and light at the same time, he was floating and falling, and Brienne was sobbing and cursing him and holding him to her and letting him go …

Darkness and light and darkness again, spinning through the spaces between, begging Brienne to help him and sinking regardless.

At last Jaime opened eyes and saw a ceiling above him. He stirred himself to move.

The bulk of Samwell Tarly leaned over him. “Ser Jaime? How do you feel?”

“Alive,” Jaime said, his voice hoarse. “Brienne?”

“Hush, don’t wake her,” Tarly said.

And that was all he needed to know, that she was there. Jaime let himself dissolve back into the darkness.

Brienne was there still, or there again, the next time he opened his eyes, standing tall and straight by the window. Jaime watched her for a moment. The light striking in from the afternoon sun cast her into silhouette, all fine detail etched away. She might have been a statue of a knight, worn smooth by time.

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked at last.

She turned, and now her face was in shadow. “I think I’m going to be angry for a long time.”

“But not forever?” The note of hopeful pleading in his voice would have made Jaime wince, once. When he was a younger, prouder man. _Before I became the man who made Brienne of Tarth cry._

“I can’t promise,” Brienne warned.

“I didn’t love her,” Jaime said. “Not the way you meant it. Not at the end. Not, I think, for a long time.”

Brienne was still a moment, and then came slowly to the side of his bed. Jaime patted the coverlet with his stump, an invitation to sit, and after another hesitation, she took it. As always, she made care to move so gently the mattress beneath him barely stirred. “How long a time?” she asked.

“Hard to say, exactly.” Jaime smiled. _She’s listening to me. She’ll let me tell her._ Brienne was always fair, that was one of the truths of her, she was constitutionally incapable of being unfair. _Fair, and honest, and honourable, and every other damn virtue I had begun to believe impossible until I met her._ “Hard to pin-point one instant that love dies, or infatuation fades. Possibly when you washed vomit and horse-piss from my beard.” Brienne was staring at him in such consternation Jaime couldn’t help but laugh. “Or bullied me into living. Or held me safe on horseback when I was so mazed with fever I hardly knew up from down.”

“You slept through most of that,” Brienne said, cautiously.

“Yes, I slept, in your arms, and lay awake at night. I would have told you then that I loved my sister and was faithful only to her, but that was when I began to betray her in my heart.” Jaime rested his stump on the back of her hand, because it had never disgusted Brienne, not for a second. “You were strong, and brave, and kind, and gentle, and you didn’t shrink from any task, no matter how difficult, no matter how disgusting. There was a part of me that was yours, from then on, Brienne.”

“You stayed with her.” Brienne’s eyes were wounded, but her voice was soft, without accusation.

“I stayed with her, I went back to her, I can’t excuse it, I can’t explain it, Seven Hells, I can’t even _understand_ it.” Jaime shook his head, and winced as even that little movement sent a stab of pain through him. “I could say it was a thousand days of wrong choices, or that it was a thousand days of not making any choices, and I don’t know which is true and –”

Brienne turned her hand and wrapped her strong fingers around his stump. “It’s alright.” Her voice was soft, and gentle. “Don’t distress yourself, Jaime. You need to rest.”

“Will you stay with me?” Begging, without pride, without shame. “Will you stay?”

“Yes, if it will help you rest easy.”

Jaime could close his eyes, then, because Brienne of Tarth kept her word. “Did you really write in the White Book that you defeated me in single combat?”

“I did not. I haven’t begun my page yet. There’s not much to put on it.”

He smiled. “Foolish knight. You could fill a page with what you’ve done already.”

“Yes, but all of that happened before I became a knight. It’s traditional to only write about what members of the Kingsguard achieve as knights.”

“As an enormous hairy Wildling once said, fuck tradition.” Jaime tried to reach over with his left hand to take hers, but had to abandon the attempt when it made him hiss with pain. “Besides, that’s not true, anyway. Some pages have notable deeds before knighting, look up Barristan Selmy if you don’t believe me.”

Brienne moved a little, carefully, and the next moment he felt her strong, broad hand close over his own. She had to reach over him to do so, and Jaime could feel her warmth against him. “I will. Now try to sleep.”

Jaime opened his eyes. “Will you tell me a story?”

Brienne sighed. “You’re being ridiculous. Again.”

“Tell me a story, please, about brave Ser Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime wheedled, and Brienne gave a huff of reluctant laughter.

“If it will help you to sleep,” she said. “In a place, neither near nor far, and a time, neither now nor then, there was a handsome knight. But he was a bit of an arse.”

Jaime opened his eyes. “That’s my story, not yours.”

Brienne looked down at him, her gorgeous blue eyes soft. “Close your eyes.”

“I like looking at you.”

“Close your eyes, and try to sleep, or I won’t tell you any more.”

Jaime sighed. “Alright.” He closed his eyes. “You really can be a terrible bully at times, you know.”

“I’ll add it to my page, when I write it,” Brienne said, and made him chuckle again. “Anyway. For one reason or another, this handsome knight found himself chained hand and foot in a cage, and occasionally hit over the head with a rock.”

“And threatened by a wolf,” Jaime added sleepily.

“And threatened by a wolf,” Brienne agreed. “But a very great and brave lady offered him a chance of freedom, in exchange for certain oaths.”

“Which he had no intention of keeping.” He wanted to hear the way Brienne would tell it, but Jaime could feel himself slipping into sleep, and he was too weary to really try to fight it.

“Which he told himself he had no intention of keeping,” Brienne corrected.

He was sinking into the gentle darkness, and it was hard to form words, but Jaime tried. “Why is this … your story? It’s my story.”

“Foolish knight,” Brienne said softly. “It’s our story. Let me tell it to you, for once. Instead of you insisting on telling it to yourself.”

“Mmm,” he managed to agree.

“This handsome knight told himself he had no intention of keeping his oaths, but in truth, there was honour within him, buried deep. He was sent with a companion …”

_A brave and honourable companion, with astonishingly beautiful eyes …_ But he was drifting away, floating into dreams where the steady thread of Brienne’s voice wove itself through half-memories. They fought in and out of the river, and she defeated him, but this time there were no Bloody Mummers to interrupt them and Brienne threw him down on the riverbank, straddled him, and demanded _yield, yield to me_ … somehow at this point he already only had one hand, but it didn’t matter, it had never mattered to Brienne … He was on horseback, held upright by Brienne’s strong arms, the sun warm on his face but her body warmer at his back. _Not much further, not much further today_ , she murmured in his ear, a kind lie from the strength of the sunlight but he didn’t care, it was all the more hours swaying to the motion of the horse and feeling her muscles flex and move against him as she did the same … Harrenhal, and he was floating away on fever and memory, and Brienne held him and called him by name …

And then nothing, only sweet darkness, held safely there by Brienne’s strong hands.

 


	11. Tyrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime has strong feelings about the White Book

 

Tyrion Lannister was not expecting company, so he raised his head at the sound of limping footsteps in the corridor outside the office he had appropriated until the Tower of the Hand could be rebuilt. He was certainly not expecting Jaime Lannister, leaning heavily on a cane, a huge book bound in white leather tucked under his right, handless, arm. _Jaime has only been on his feet again for a few days, by what God’s grace did he even manage the stairs?_

“Jaimie, I didn’t expect you to be –”

Jaime flung the book down in front of Tyrion with a heave of his shoulder. “I want to see the king.”

Tyrion turned the book so he could read the title. “Is this … brother mine, have you just stolen the White Book of the Kingsguard from the White Tower?”

“Borrowed.” Jaime braced himself on the back of the chair opposite Tyrion.

“Sit down,” Tyrion said hastily, and hopped up to help Jaime lower himself, wincing. “And tell me, from the beginning, in complete sentences.”

Jaime waved his stump at the book. “I wanted to see what Brienne wrote about me.”

Tyrion felt his stomach clench. Had Brienne been so very angry, then? Angry beyond fairness? _It seems unlike her, but then, apparently my dear foolish brother did give her great cause._ Flipping pages, he found the one that bore his brother’s name, skimmed down to where Jaime’s clumsy left-handed scrawl ended, and read aloud. “Took Riverrun from the Tully rebels, without loss of life. Lured the Unsullied into attacking Casterly Rock, sacrificing his childhood home in service to a greater strategy. Outwitted the Targaryen forces to seize Highgarden. Fought at the Battle of the Goldroad bravely, narrowly escaping death by dragonfire. Pledged himself to the forces of men and rode north to join them at Winterfell, alone. Faced the Army of the Dead and defended the castle against impossible odds until the defeat of the Night King. Escaped imprisonment and rode south in an attempt to save the capital from destruction.” Slowly he raised his head to see Jaime scowling. “It’s … more than generous.”

“Now read what she wrote on her own,” Jaime said, voice hard.

It was the most recent entry, Brienne having written Ser Podrick Payne’s page before her own. Pod’s page was brief, and when Tyrion skimmed it, it regretfully made no mention of his prowess with the ladies. _Probably inappropriate, if apparently heroic beyond the deeds of other men._ No, it simply noted his service as a squire to Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth, his participation in the rescue and safe-guarding of Lady Sansa Stark, and his heroic participation in the defence of Winterfell.

Tyrion turned to the next entry. “Ser Brienne of Tarth, knighted by Ser Jaime Lannister on the eve of the Battle of Winterfell. Prior to that sworn member of Renly Baratheon’s Kingsguard. Failed to protect her king against dark magic wielded on behalf of Stannis Baratheon.” His gaze flicked up from the page at Jaime’s loud snort. “As sworn sword of Lady Catelyn Stark, was tasked with returning Ser Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing and exchanging him for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. Barely defeated Ser Jaime Lannister in single combat while he was manacled and weakened by long captivity. Failed in her task, resulting in Ser Jaime Lannister losing his swordhand.”

“She did as well or better than anyone could have, man, woman, knight, _Kingsguard_ ,” Jaime snarled, and there was real anger on his face. Tyrion could read his brother better than anyone could, had known each flicker of expression that showed how the title _Kingslayer_ grated in the long years of King Robert’s reign. He’d watched his brother’s hope for regard from knights like Ser Barristan Selmy settle into bitter never-quite-resignation, and he’d seen him feign anger to bend men to his will.

There was nothing feigned in Jaime’s face now.  

Tyrion read on. “Sent by Ser Jaime Lannister to safeguard Lady Sansa Stark. Defeated the Hound in single combat, but failed to rescue Lady Arya Stark, who was his captive. Failed to protect Lady Sansa Stark from Ramsay Bolton, but successfully protected her after her escape and escorted her to Castle Black. Avenged Renly Baratheon by executing Stannis Baratheon for his crimes. Sent by Lady Sansa Stark to bring her Tully kinsmen from Riverrun to her aid, but failed. Fought at the Battle of Winterfell. Named to the Kingsguard and appointed Lord Commander by King Brandon Stark.”

Jaime’s one good hand clenched in a fist and he pounded it on the desk. “She’s achieved more than many men listed to good account in that book, and she lists them like a litany of failures. I _will_ see the king, I _will_ have the page sanded and scraped and filled _properly_ –”

Tyrion closed the book. “It’s Ser Brienne’s prerogative to write her own page,” he pointed out, but gently, because Jaime in a rage was not to jostled or trifled with.

One long finger stabbed towards him. “It’s my fault,” Jaime ground out. “I did that to her. When I left, how I left. _My fault._ ”

_And there it is._ Well, they would have had to come to it eventually. His brother was a man to make quick decisions and act on impulse, and also a man to regret them deeply. “How did you leave?”

Jaime turned his face away, gazing out the window. “I left her thinking she’d never meant more to me than a way to warm my bed on winter nights,” he said, low and bitter.

Tyrion winced. “That was extraordinarily ill-done. Although I’ve done something similar, myself, hurt a woman’s feelings in an effort to spare her from worse harm. I’ve learnt it tends to backfire. Surely Ser Brienne understands that you were making sure she wouldn’t follow you South –”

Jaime laughed, and it had an ugly edge Tyrion misliked. “She would never have done that, and she knows I know it. Brienne would never leave Lady Sansa without her ordering it to do so. _She_ has honour.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I did it so she’d hate me enough to let me leave. I did it because I knew that if there was any welcome left to me in Winterfell I’d never have the strength to keep on riding South. Gods, even with that I wanted to turn my horse every hour.”

“As you should have done,” Tyrion said. “You know, when we met, I was too concerned with you getting our sweet sister to surrender to ask you what in Seven Hells you were thinking in the first place.”

Jaime shook his head slowly. “We belonged to each other, Cersei and I. Belonged together. As she always said, it was us, only us. We came into the world together, we were supposed to leave it together –”

Tyrion slammed his hand down on the desk. “Said Cersei! Our sweet sister who was so clever that she thought it was a good idea to antagonise a woman with a dragon by executing the one hostage who could have _guaranteed_ Daenerys Targaryen wouldn’t risk firing the Red Keep! You did _not_ belong to Cersei, you belonged to _yourself_ and you still do. It was never only you, you fool. You loved me, she hated me. You were kind, she was cruel – not just to _me_ , Jaime, I’ve seen you with your squires and your servants your whole life. You – ” He stopped, because his brother was weeping. Soundlessly, and almost without moving, but the tears were pouring down his face as Tyrion had only seen them once before.

He scrambled down from his chair and hurried around the desk. When he reached his brother’s side, Jaime turned and leaned over him, flinging his arms around Tyrion’s shoulders and burying his face against Tyrion’s neck. Tyrion reached up to embrace him as best he could, stroking Jaime’s hair as Jaime had used to stroke his, back in the days when Jaime was Tyrion’s only refuge from their sister’s cruelty and their father’s disdain.

Jaime heaved one hard breath, and then another. “Brother,” he gasped, and the sobs finally came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the show, Jaime never writes on his own page, and it's left to Brienne to fill in that he was defeated at Whispering Woods etc. However, in the books, Jaime is the one to write that, and in fact the last words he writes of his story in the White Book are "Brienne, the Maid of Tarth." That's the version I went with.


	12. Jaime V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime finds out an unexpected fact about his father.

Too weak and weary to even keep to his feet for more than a few moments, Jaime Lannister was forced to endure the humiliation of being half-carried back to his bed by Ser Podrick Payne and Lord Bronn of fucking Highgarden.

He’d managed to stop crying, after an endless age in which he could do nothing to get control of himself, nothing but cling to Tyrion and sob so hard he felt like it might almost break his ribs. By the time the tears and the grief and the poison had finished pouring out of him, Jaime had felt as if the life and strength in him had gone with them. Tyrion had done him the decency of fetching him a ewer of water and a cloth before he summoned Bronn and Podrick to help him back to his room, but Jaime had been well aware that his eyes must have been red-rimmed enough to tell the tale of his weakness.

Letting them tumble him into his bed, Jaime’s only thought was to hope neither of them spoke of it to Brienne and then he was sliding down the slope of sleep into unconsciousness.

When he woke, he could tell without opening his eyes that he wasn’t alone, although the room was silent. _You fight for long enough, you sense a body nearby, even with your vision narrowed by a visor and the din of steel-on-steel in your ears._

He opened his eyes to see Arya Stark sitting at the small desk, writing something.

“Lady Arya.” His throat was as dry as the dunes of Dorne and his eyes were scratchy and sore. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your brother sent me,” she said, still writing. “I’m supposed to make sure you eat and drink something, and don’t try to get out of bed.”

That immediately made Jaime want to get out of bed, but when he raised himself on his elbow, the effort left him shaking. “Why you, exactly?”

Arya looked up with a smirk. “To get rid of me. I was pestering him about my ship.”

“So he sent you to pester me?” That did sound like Tyrion.

She set down her pen, picked up a tray with a goblet and food on it, and came to sit on the edge of his bed. “He phrased it more politely. I’m to keep you entertained.”

Jaime managed to raise himself enough to arrange the pillows so he could half sit up to eat. Arya put the tray on his lap and the first thing Jaime did was seize the goblet and drain it. The watered wine was balm to his throat. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“We could play a game.”

“I’m not very good at chess.” Jaime ate a slice of apple and discovered he was hungry.

Arya hopped up, and went to refill the goblet from the flagon on the table. “I meant the game of faces.”

Jaime accepted the goblet gladly, and drank deeply again. “I don’t know that game.”

“It’s easy. I say something, and you have to tell me if it’s true, or a lie. And then you say something, and I have to tell if its truth, or a lie.” She perched on the edge of the bed again. “Or we ask each other questions, with the same rules. Or both.”

“And then drink?” Jaime asked, thinking of Tyrion.

“No, there’s no drinking. I’ll start. I was cupbearer to your father.”

“Lie,” Jaime said confidently.

Arya shook her head. “True. At Harrenhal. He didn’t know who I was.”

“You must be a very good liar, then,” Jaime said. “Not much got past my father.”

“I am,” Arya said matter-of-factly. “I lied to him that I was from the Riverlands, badly, and he was so pleased with his cleverness at catching me out that he believed me when I told him I was from Barrowtown. Men like your father are easy to fool, as long as you keep them believing they’re smarter than you.”

“He _was_ smarter than me,” Jaime said.

“Lie,” Arya said. “He destroyed your House. And he did it by doing things you’d never have done.”

Jaime raised his eyebrows. “I had something of a hand in that myself, you know.”

“That’s a truth,” Arya said. “My turn. In Braavos, I made a living as a mummer.”

_Ah, that explains her facility with falsehoods._ “True,” Jaime said, finishing the last slice of apple.

Arya smiled. “False. I trained to be no-one at the House of Black and White. Your turn.”

“I was my father’s favourite child.” His goblet was empty again, and Jaime tilted it at Arya. “Is there plain water, at all?”

“It’s not safe yet.” Arya went and brought the flagon to him, this time, sitting with it on her lap once she’d poured. “This is well-watered, though. Was that truth, or a lie? I couldn’t tell.”

“It was both, my lady. It would be more accurate to say that I was, at least some of the time, my father’s least _unfavourite_ child.” Still thirsty, Jaime only allowed himself to sip this time. Watered or not, the wine was beginning to make his head spin a little.

“He must have liked you, though. He said he spent hours every day helping you learn to read.”

And _that_ needed a gulp, not a sip, of the wine. His father’s voice, sharp with impatience, his father looming over him, huge to a child of eight. _You_ will _apply yourself. I will not have the next Lord of Casterly Rock an illiterate idiot._ And, at each mistake, the swish of his father’s riding crop, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to damage Tywin’s heir permanently. _Stop daydreaming about swords and horses and pay attention!_

The first day, going to Cersei afterwards, determined not to cry. _But she had her own troubles._ Instead of the sympathy he’d expected, Cersei had been furious that he had interrupted her lamentation over being kept inside to do needlework, furious enough to slap him hard enough to leave a mark.

Furious enough to not come to his bed that night, and he’d lain cold and alone with his arms stinging and his jaw aching and known that, come morning, it was all to do over. And he _had_ cried then, even though his father would have beaten him if he’d known he was being so unmanly, cried with his face pressed to the pillow, longing for his mother.

He took another swallow of wine, and cleared his throat. “You again, no?”

“Yes. Your father was quite nice to me, considering.”

Jaime put his goblet down on the tray and levelled his forefinger at her. “That is most definitely a lie.”

“It’s true,” Arya said, and Jaime gaped at her. She shrugged. “I mean, he was still the enemy, but he worked out pretty quickly that I was highborn. I could have had some value –”

“You had a great deal of value,” Jaime said. It still seemed incredible. _Ned Stark’s daughter, serving my father wine while he planned the campaign against her brother …_ “And he was lucky you didn’t have access to ravens.”

“He could have had me tortured to find out who I was,” Arya said. “Instead he let me keep on pretending that I didn’t know that he knew.”

“Ah, House Lannister.” Jaime poked at the food left on the platter, appetite suddenly gone. “A family where refraining from putting hot irons to the feet of a child is all you have to do to be _quite nice, considering_.”  

“Your turn,” Arya said implacably.

Jaime lifted a slice of cold meat, and let it fall again. “I’m tired of playing.”

“Lie,” Arya said confidently. “You’re not tired, you’re afraid.”

Jaime gave her his best withering look, the one he’d used to keep for the lickspittles at court. “Careful, my lady. You’re questioning the courage of a knight of the seven kingdoms.”

Arya, it seemed, was immune to withering looks. “I came to King’s Landing to kill Queen Cersei.”

“Truth,” Jaime snapped. “And what made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t want to die,” Arya said quietly. “That’s a truth, as well. What made you change your mind about staying in the North?”

“I hate the fucking North.” Jaime drank again, deeply.

“More than you hated your fucking sister?”

He gave her a sardonic smile, the one that used to make people flinch from him. “I think the whole of the Seven Kingdoms knows that the problem was, I didn’t hate fucking my sister.”

She studied him a moment. “Truth or lie? Or both, again?”

Jaime let his head fall back on the pillow. “You’re too young to understand, my lady.”

“I’m not a child,” Arya said pointedly. “And I’m not a lady.”

“You’re still too young to understand, and gods be good, you always will be. Leave the subject, I beg you.” Jaime lifted his head enough to drink again, and the room spun gently. He realised his goblet was empty once more. A comfortable distance had grown between himself and the world. _Definitely drunk._ It was not unpleasant. _Perhaps Tyrion has been on to something all these years._

Arya took the goblet from his unresisting hand, and lifted the tray from his lap. “You’ll sleep now.”

“That wine wasn’t as watered as you claimed,” Jaime murmured, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Oh, it was well-watered,” Arya assured him. “But your brother had Sam Tarly lace it with dreamwine. You’ll sleep until tomorrow.”

 “Truth …” Jaime whispered, recognising the feeling now. A sudden panic seized him at the knowledge that he would be alone in the dark, helpless if someone or something should come, and he struggled to open his eyes.

“I’ll stay until Ser Brienne or Podrick come,” Arya said. Her small little fingers closed over his. “I know what it’s like, you know. I’ll stay.”

 


	13. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has a nightmare, and an important conversation.

_Oathkeeper weighed as much as the sword it was made from must have, exhaustion dragging down her arm, but Brienne kept fighting – had no choice but to keep fighting, because the dead were endless, because she would not die, she would not let Podrick die, she would not let Jaime die –_

_But she turned, and they stood before her, and their eyes were blue fire. Jaime reached for her – the dead didn’t speak, but Jaime said her name – “Brienne. Brienne.”_

_She screamed, and screamed, and screamed._

“Brienne, Brienne, wake now, wake!” Jaime’s hand was on her shoulder, but it was warm and alive, and when Brienne started up from where she had fallen asleep, leaning against his bed, the eyes that met hers were green and warm with concern. His hand moved from her shoulder to cup her cheek. “Are you alright?”

Brienne was shaking and sweaty and cold, but she forced herself to nod and lean back from his touch instead of into it. She couldn’t look away from Jaime, though, as he studied her, frowning. When she’d come in to sit with him he’d been deep under, drugged on the orders of his brother, the lines that time and grief and pain had given him smoothed in sleep. Now they were back, making him beautiful when once he’d been pretty.

“You aren’t, you know.” Jaime swung his legs off the bed and stood before Brienne could stop him. He pulled the coverlet from the bed and swung it around her shoulders.

“Sit before you fall,” she said, her voice stiff and hoarse.

Jaime did, and put his hand and his stump on her knees. “Brienne. What was the dream?”

Brienne shook her head. “Nothing.”

“That was not nothing,” Jaime said, a hint of irritation in his voice. _As if_ he _has any right to be irritated with_ me. “Is it still as bad as it was in Winterfell?”

She didn’t want to think about Winterfell, didn’t want to think of the nights when she’d woken trembling and terrified and been able to find refuge and comfort in his arms, and he’d held her and soothed her and murmured nonsense until she was calm. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to keep herself from going to him now. “Only time to time,” she lied.

“Only time to time wouldn’t put those shadows beneath your eyes,” Jaime said. “I thought it was watching over me, but it’s more, isn’t it? Oh, Brienne. It will get better.”

Brienne frowned. “How do you know?”

Jaime smiled slightly. “I know a little something about bad dreams. After Aerys … Barristan thought I was screaming in the night at the memory of what I’d done. I never told him it was at the imagination that I’d failed.” His hand moved on her knee. “Will you come here and let me comfort you? I may not be good for much, but I’m good for that at least.”

Suddenly, Brienne was blazingly angry: with him, with Cersei, with every person who’d called him _Kingslayer_ – including herself, and, shockingly, Lady Catelyn – and with his father, who’d failed Jaime in some way Brienne couldn’t comprehend but _knew._ “Stop it!” she snapped. “You are good for a great deal, Jaime Lannister, you are a _good man_ , and you make me tired, you really do! I’ve defended you against Starks and against the Dragon Queen and Northerners, please, _please_ stop making me defend you against yourself!”

Jaime’s mouth fell open a little and he stared at her, shock written on every line of his face. “Brienne …”

Brienne shook her head. “No. No, Jaime! I prayed for you nightly to find it in yourself to choose the path of honour, and you did. You rode north to fight with us. I don’t care what you tell yourself, you didn’t do it for survival, you did it because you chose to do what was right. _You_ chose. And yes, you hurt me, and you went back to _her_ , because you tell yourself you’re worthless so often you can’t help believe it. How do you think you’ll get on, if you can’t stop now? Drowning yourself in drink until you’re dead in an alley? Picking fights you can’t win until one costs your life? I can’t save you, Jaime, I couldn’t before, I’ll never be able to. You have to make up your mind to save yourself, and I wish you would, because I love you, and I’ll grieve every one of my days if I lose you.”

Jaime closed his eyes and bowed his head. “You still love me?”

“Of course I love you. Just because I’m angry with you doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Brienne leaned forward, the coverlet slipping from her shoulders, and took his face between her hands. “Jaime. Look at me.”

It took a moment, but he met her gaze. At first only for an instant, his eyes turning away as if he was frightened of what he could see in her face, and then, finally, properly.

“You are a good man,” she said firmly. “Say so.”

The corner of Jaime’s mouth turned up. “You are a –” Her fingers tightened warningly and he winced. “I am … a not-entirely-bad man. Who has tried, on occasion, to do what is right, instead of what’s easy.” He covered her hand with his, and Brienne didn’t think he was even aware of the way he stroked her fingers with his thumb. “That will have to do for now, Brienne.”

“It’s a start,” Brienne said. She knew she should let go of him and lean back, but his beard was soft and scratchy beneath her palms and his face was soft with wonder, as it had been when she’d first risen to her feet as a knight.

So instead she leaned forward and kissed him. Gently, chastely, closed lips against closed lips. Jaime made no effort to deepen the kiss, only leaned into her, and when she parted them and released him, he leaned further to rest his head on her shoulder with a sigh. “Brienne. I’ve been so very tired. And so very lonely.”

She wrapped her arms around him, fingers feathering his hair. “I know. I … needed time.”

Jaime shook his head, beard scratching her neck. “Not now. For years.”

He made her heart ache. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t come, you know –”

“I would never ask or expect you to forsake an oath,” Jaime said. “And besides, sweet sister Cersei would have had you murdered.” There was loathing, pure and uncomplicated, in the way he spoke the name.

“I can defend myself.”   

“Against poison? Or some fabricated charge of treason? No.” Jaime’s arms came around her waist. “Besides, you were right. Are right. It was my choice to leave, and it had to be. You do love me, Brienne?”

“I do,” she said firmly.

“And will you forgive me, one day?”

“I will.”  

Jaime sighed again, and sat up. “I could stay there all day, but you need to get back to the White Tower before people begin to talk.”

“You slept in my bed for weeks, in Winterfell,” Brienne pointed out. “If people are going to talk, they’ve started.”

“That was Winterfell. This is King’s Landing. And you’re Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. People will talk. And then some up-jumped lordling will say something and I’ll have to fight him over it, and I’ll probably lose.”

“I will fight anyone who needs fighting myself, thank you,” Brienne said.

Jaime smiled. “Yes, you will, won’t you. Will you champion my honour as well?”

“No, but I’m sure Podrick will do an adequate job,” Brienne said, and Jaime laughed, sweet and almost young again.

“Ser Brienne of Tarth, please promise me you will always be exactly as you are.” He brushed her cheek with his fingers. “Don’t let this place change you. It changes so many of us, and not for the better.”

“I can’t promise to never change.” Brienne gave in to the temptation to turn her face into his touch. “Everyone changes. But I assure you, I won’t _be_ changed.”

“Kiss me again before you go.”

“If you promise to rest and not steal any more books that don’t belong to you.”

Jaime grimaced a little. “Tyrion told you?”

“Well, he really had to when I stormed into his study to report the theft of the White Book.”

“Did he tell you why?” He cupped her cheek, his hand warm and impossibly gentle.

“He said you were being an idiot about your page. It’s mine to write, now, Jaime, and I’ll write about the knight I know and not the man you fear you are.”

“Your page,” Jaime said slowly, surprising her. “ _Your_ page, Brienne. It has as much relation to what happened as a man with two skins of wine inside him telling the story of an old battle has to how that battle truly went.” He frowned, summoning his thoughts. “Ser Brienne of Tarth, who should have been made knight when she carried the tourney before Renly Baratheon. Named to the Kingsguard of Renly Baratheon, strove to defend him against the unnatural forces raised by Stannis Baratheon.”

“I –”

Jaime’s thumb brushed over her lips, silencing her. “Shhh. Later delivered justice for Renly Baratheon’s murder by executing Stannis Baratheon. Sworn sword of Lady Catelyn Stark, charged with delivering Ser Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing, which she did. Charged by Ser Jaime Lannister to fulfil both their oaths to Lady Catelyn Stark by saving and safeguarding Lady Sansa Stark. Fulfilled her oath. Defeated Sandor Clegane in single combat. Made a knight, long overdue, on the eve of the Battle of Winterfell. Defended the living in the Great War. Saved Ser Jaime Lannister’s life.”

“That’s not the whole truth, either,” Brienne said. “I can’t put that. It isn’t honest.”

“And you’re an extraordinary woman who overcame impossible odds to achieve everything you set out to, and I’m going to the king as soon as he’ll see me to have your entry changed. Both of those things are true.” He leaned forward, and pressed his lips to hers for a second. “As is the fact that I love you.”

 


	14. Tyrion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sees the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I have trouble writing King Bran the Ableistly-Nicknamed but I’ve done my best.   
> Also this is a short little chapter but there's another, longer one, coming soon.

 

Tyrion watched Jaime stand before King Brandon, hiding a smile. _I love my brother, truly I do, but nevertheless I think I’m going to enjoy this_. He had to make sure he didn’t look towards the wall where Podrick Payne stood. _If I catch his eye I’ll start laughing and_ his _face will definitely tell Jaime something is up._

“Welcome, Ser Jaime,” the king said.

“Thank you for granting me an audience, your grace.” Jaime could turn every courtesy to a weapon, Tyrion had seen him do it, but now his tone was entirely sincere. Token of how much this meant to him, and it clearly meant a great deal. “I have a request, about the White Book.”

“I’ll hear your request, and then tell you mine.”

“The White Book should contain an accurate account of the deeds of the members of the Kingsguard.”

“Good and bad,” King Brandon said in his odd, old-young voice.   

“There are inaccuracies on Ser Brienne of Tarth’s page.”

“And on yours.”

Jaime’s shoulders jerked a little at that. “And on mine. My request is that you order the pages scraped and sanded so they can be filled truthfully.”

“It is the Lord Commander’s right to write what she deems to be true,” King Brandon said. “Do you think all those pages tell the story men would tell about themselves, or the story men would wish told? No. The White Book tells the story of those who wrote in it as well as the story of those featured in it. Ser Brienne has earned the right to tell her own story, and yours, according to her own beliefs.”

Jaime, being Jaime, tried to persist. “I think that she may later –”

“Then she is free to make the request herself. Later,” King Brandon said.

Jaime bowed his head. “As your grace sees fit. And you – ” Jaime’s voice caught. “Your request. I suppose you’d like me to leave King’s Landing?”

“That’s the very last thing I wish,” the king said. “Ser Jaime Lannister, I name you Master of War, Warden of the West, and confirm you as Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime’s head jerked up. “What?”

“Jaime, it’s customary to kneel,” Tyrion said, unable to keep from grinning. _If I have to spend the rest of my life sorting out the mess our family made of the realm, so do you._ His brother shot one scowl over his shoulder and hastily dropped to one knee.

“Your grace, I am not –”

“An experienced commander with experience in siege-craft, manoeuvres, and strategy? A veteran of more than two decades of skirmishes and battles?”

“A man you should trust,” Jaime bit out.

“I disagree.”  

“I fought against your family for _years_. I ended the Tully Rebellion –”

“Bloodlessly,” King Brandon said.

“I would have –”

“But you didn’t.”

Tyrion took pity on his brother. He hopped down from his chair and went to stand beside Jaime. “What Ser Jaime means to say –”

“I can speak for myself,” Jaime hissed at him.

“Apparently not. What Ser Jaime means to say is that he’s honoured, and he accepts.”

“I don’t accept!” Jaime said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes you do,” Tyrion said. “We need you. King Brandon is a king whose family seat is in our _neighbouring_ kingdom. He has no banners to call. We depend on the other houses for our fighting troops, and you know how well that tends to go. We have a very expensive rebuilding project, and no idea how long the winter is going to be, so we can hardly spare the coin to hire mercenaries, if we could even get any to take the contract after what happened to the _last_ sell-swords from Essos to venture to Westeros.”

By the time he’d finished, Jaime was staring at him. “Seven Hells!”

“We’re fucked, the moment Dorne or the Iron Islands or bloody Bear Island for that matter, find themselves dissatisfied with current arrangements,” Tyrion agreed. He put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Small Council, big brother. Come up with a plan.”      


	15. Brienne IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne finds out about Jaime's new role.   
> NSFW aka the Smut That Was Promised

As had become her habit in the weeks since what she thought of as ‘The White Book Incident’, Brienne bent her steps toward Jaime’s rooms when she’d finished in the practice yard. She usually found him already asleep, for although he had recovered well enough to make his way about the Red Keep and even climb stairs, he was still mending and tired easily.

So she didn’t knock, only opened the door and slipped inside as quietly as she could.

Jaime was at the desk, not in bed, frowning down at a heavy book in his lap. Scrolls and papers littered the surface, and he’d brought every candle in the room to give him light. Deep in concentration, he hadn’t heard her come in, and Brienne took the moment to just look at him.  There was still some gold in his hair, for all the years had faded him, and the candlelight limned those strands, softened the lines bracketing his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. It was the only gold to him – his hand was discarded on the table among the confusion of papers.

He turned a page, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, softly so as not to startle him.

Jaime lowered his hand and looked up. He smiled. “Brienne.”

She crossed to him. “Is reading by candlelight the cause of your headache?”

“How do you know I have a headache?” Jaime reached across his body to take her hand.

“You always pinch your nose like that when your head hurts.” Brienne laced her fingers through his. “What are you reading?”

“Some bloody ancient maester’s ideas about standing armies. And it’s not the candlelight that’s making my head ache, reading always does. And if reading didn’t, my head would still be splitting.”

She gave in to the temptation to card her fingers through his hair. Jaime sighed, and leaned against her, his eyes falling closed. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his eyes to look up at her, a flicker of candlelight catching emerald sparks in his gaze. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“King Brandon named me his Master of War.” Jaime closed his eyes again. “That’s helping my headache. Don’t stop.” He was silent a moment as Brienne ran her fingers through the gold and silver strands, rubbing his scalp gently as she did. “So you’ll have to put up with me in the Small Council.”

“I think I can manage to tolerate your presence,” Brienne said, and he chuckled, a warm, low sound that she could feel as well as hear. “You’ll be good at it, you know.”

“I’ll have to be, given the state of things.” The words slurred a little. _He’s close to falling asleep._ Brienne slipped her hand from his, ignoring his murmur of protest, and hoisted the book from his lap one-handed, depositing it on the table.

“You should go to bed,” Brienne said. “The books will be there in the morning.”

“Come with me.” Jaime captured her hand once more. His thumb rubbed hers, a slow, steady pressure that started warmth pooling in her belly. She knew he felt it too, from the cock-stand evident through his breeches.  

They hadn’t yet lain together since she’d found him alive amidst the rubble and the ashes of King’s Landing – Jaime too weak, Brienne too angry, too many things said and unsaid between them to simply take up where they’d left off. _But we’ve said them, now_. Her anger had softened into forgiveness, and Jaime was clearly stronger. And she wanted, oh, how she wanted, to feel his lips and his hand on her and yes, his cock inside her.

It had been so long that Brienne felt half-a-virgin again as she took a deep breath and said, “Yes.”  

Jaime’s smile broadened. He rose to his feet, so close to her that Brienne thought he would kiss her, but instead he simply drew her towards the bed. Even when they had shed their boots and lain down together, he only held her hand in his and looked at her, and it was Brienne who broke the silence.

“May I kiss you?” she asked.

“I wish you would,” Jaime said.

She leaned across the space between them, careful not to put any of her weight on him, and touched her lips to his. Jaime gave a murmur of pleasure, but he made no attempt to deepen the kiss. His mouth opened when her tongue asked it to, though, and his tongue sought hers.  Brienne had gotten past the disbelief that a man as beautiful as Jaime Lannister might want her, but she still felt a sort of wonderment at how quickly he hardened against her thigh, just from the press of their lips together and the taste of her mouth. Jaime loosed his hand from hers and ran it over her back, and then around to palm her breast, fingers circling and tugging at her nipple until Brienne was moaning against his mouth, hips moving restlessly at the heat gathering and throbbing between her legs.

She drew back a little, breathless. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m strong enough,” Jaime assured her.

Brienne unlaced his shirt and drew it over his head, and then freed him from his breeches as well. As always, her breath caught at the sight of him. He had more scars than he had worn at Harrenhal, and there was silver in the hair on his chest and at the juncture of his thighs, but the years hadn’t softened or weakened him, only refined the powerful lines of his muscles and sinews to a harder, tougher shape. His cock stood proud, clear evidence of how much he wanted her.

“Now you,” Jaime whispered, his gaze dark. “Please, Brienne.”

She nodded, and divested herself of her own clothes. Bared to him, she was suddenly shy. Her arm rose to cover her breasts without her willing it, and her other hand hovered before her sex. _In the name of the warrior, I charge you to be brave …_ There was more than one kind of courage, and Brienne found hers and managed to lower her arms.

Jaime sucked in a hard breath. “You’re lucky I’m in a weakened state,” he said huskily. “Or I’d be on you like a wild beast. Come here.”

“You wouldn’t, you know,” Brienne said, stretching out beside him.

“I wouldn’t,” Jaime agreed, and this time he was the one to bridge the distance between them and capture her mouth with his. His hand slid between her legs, fingers gentle and tender on her most sensitive flesh and Brienne groaned at the heat that flashed through her at his touch. “I’d like to do this for hours,” Jaime panted against her mouth. “But to be honest, I’m so mad with wanting you I’m close to spending already.”    

“Please, harder,” Brienne gasped. “I need – please –” Heat and need knotted together inside her, drew tighter and tighter until she couldn’t stand it and then suddenly released, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her, Jaime gentling his touch again as he carried her through them, whispering _beautiful, there you go, there you go._

As soon as her senses returned, Brienne threw her leg over his. Jaime turned to face her and she fit them together, easing forward to take him inside her. He moaned and took her hip in a hard grip, driving deeper. “I – sorry – I –” he gasped, and spilled inside her with three shuddering thrusts.  

Brienne wrapped her arms around him and held him close and safe.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “You’d think I was four and ten, not four and forty.”

“Yes, it’s so terrible for me, knowing that the man I love can’t control his desire for me,” Brienne said, and he chuckled. “There’s always tomorrow. If you’re strong enough.”

“Oh, I will be.” There was such conviction in his voice she couldn’t help laugh, herself. “Quite possibly several times.”

Reluctantly, Brienne disentangled herself from him, and found a cloth to clean them both. “Then you’d better get some sleep, to build up your strength.”

“Stay,” Jaime said. “At least until I sleep. Please.”

“Alright.” Brienne lay down beside him and took him in her arms again. “If only to be sure you don’t decide to stay up half the night reading after I’ve gone.”

He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, words blurring together. “You won’t have to stay long.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Stop talking and sleep.”

Jaime gave a single long sigh and went slack and heavy against her, and Brienne knew he had.


	16. Davos II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Small Council meets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like Bronn, even despite the flanderisation, but Lord of fucking Highgarden and Master of Coin? Give me a break. Also, I’m being quite flexible with how much time has passed because … King’s Landing and the Red Keep were burned and then … sort of okay again … and I can’t wrap my head around realistic timeframes for what the show claimed so I’m just being rubbery about it. Also, sorry for another non-shippy chapter, I just can’t leave these stupid political problems alone!

 

Bronn leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re getting yourself worked up about. We’ve got Casterly Rock and Highgarden at this table, and Gendry’s a good lad. He’ll be loyal. We don’t need to worry about invasion from the north, neither.” _Either,_ Davos said to himself, as Bronn shrugged. “The Blackfish won’t let the Riverlands rise against his nephew, and the current Lord of the Vale is another relation.”

Jaime glared at him. “We’ve got _this generation’s_ Casterly Rock and Highgarden, and Lord Gendry Baratheon is young, and unmarried, and every ambitious bannerman in the Stormlands is sending his prettiest daughter to Storm’s End. The Blackfish won’t live forever, and Robin Arryn is another young, unmarried lord. What if Sansa Stark dies in childbed in a year’s time? Who will be King in the North, and what will his ambitions be? We have a breathing space, no more. When it ends, the Crownlands won’t be able to stand alone, even with levies.”

“Well, let’s hear your idea, then.” Bronn put his feet on the council table. “You’re the one whose been to fancy lad school. I’m just the one who knows about actually fighting people.”

Ser Brienne pushed his feet off the table, hard enough that Bronn had to scramble to keep from falling off his chair. “Ser Jaime also knows about fighting people, Ser Bronn.”

“ _Lord_ Bronn.”

“That you value your title above your knighthood says a great deal about you,” Brienne said coldly.

“Now let’s hear the plan, lad,” Davos said quickly. Bronn and Brienne had not yet come to blows but it had been a close thing more than once.  

“What force can no lord resist long?” Jaime said.

Samwell Tarly opened his mouth, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“If you’re going to play at fucking riddles, I’ll bring my crossbow to our next meeting,” Bronn said.

Jaime ignored him. “Their people. We have a generation at most to turn the smallfolk to supporters of the crown.”

Bronn snorted. “I don’t know if you’ve ever fought unarmed peasants, but they tend to be easy to ride over.”

Brienne gave him a scowl Davos was glad not to be on the end of. “If you think the smallfolk are _unarmed_ , you’ve never watched a harvest.”

“Why would I watch a fucking harvest?” Bronn asked.  

“Because you’re the Lord of fucking Highgarden and it’s the bread-bowl of the realm?” Tyrion suggested.    

“I have people to do that for me.” Bronn grinned at him. “I’m a lord now, and that’s what lords do. They have people to do things for them.”

“I’m about one second from advising King Brandon to make Davos Seaworth Lord of Highgarden,” Tyrion said, and his voice was level and deadly earnest. “And then we can find out how well you fire your crossbow without hands.”

“Now then,” Davos said. “We all serve the king. Let’s hear what King Brandon’s Master of War has to say.”

“First, we have to win their loyalty.” Jaime leaned forward, forefinger stabbing the table. “They don’t care who sits on the Throne, their lord, someone else’s lord. They need a reason to support the _idea_ of the crown. That means we need to provide it. I’ve been reading –”

“Maester Wilhem’s _Articles of Governance and Theory of Justified Rule_?” Sam said.

Jaime turned to him in surprise. “Yes.”

Sam nodded. “He argues that, just as a lord and a bannerman have an oath that binds both, so the people and their liege have a mutual obligation.”

“He does,” Jaime said.

“So you think if we strengthen the obligation between smallfolk and crown, it will weaken the bond between smallfolk and bannerman?”

Jaime looked a little stunned. “Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and –”

Jaime leaned forward. “You’ve been thinking about how to sustain the crown without sufficient troops?”

“No.” Sam looked startled. “I’ve been thinking about governance, and justified rule.” He turned to Tyrion. “We need a Master of Laws.”   

Tyrion frowned. “We do, but why, specifically, for this?”

Jaime tapped the table. “Because the most powerful way to make the crown the liege of the common folk is to make the crown’s justice, _directly_ , the law they obey. Gendry Baratheon sentences men to die, I sentence men to die, _Lord Bronn_ over there sentences men to die, and it’s in the name of the king, yes, but it’s not the king, it’s the lord. We need _king’s_ justice, throughout the land, first and foremost.”

“And the lords and their bannermen must also answer to it,” Sam said. “A peasant, wronged by a lord, must be able to appeal to the crown. It has to be fair.”

Tyrion snorted. “The lords won’t like that.”

“Which is why we have to do it _now_ ,” Jaime said. “While, as _Lord_ Bronn said, we have Casterly Rock and Highgarden, and pliant lords in the Vale and at Storm’s End and in the Riverlands.”

“I wouldn’t call myself pliant,” Brynden Tully said, striding into the room. He dragged a chair to the table and planted himself in it. “Loyal, maybe, but not pliant.” He gaze flicked over Jaime. “Hello again, Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s fist clenched, but it was Brienne who moved, reaching to take the Blackfish’s arm in a hard grip. “His name is Ser Jaime Lannister, and you will use it.”

The Blackfish’s gaze flicked over her. “You serve my niece no longer, I see.”

“She ordered me to protect her brother,” Brienne said evenly. “I am true to my oaths. Truer than you.”

“If you were a man, I’d fight you for that,” the Blackfish said.

“I’m a knight and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and I’ll meet you on any field you choose.” Brienne’s voice was quiet, and very even, and had an edge that rivalled Valerian steel. “Where were you, when we took Winterfell? Where were you, when we defended it against the dead? Where were you, when –”

“Killing my niece!” Brynden Tully roared, coming to his feet. “What was left of her. The foul magic that raised her – it would never be quiet. Until I silenced it.”

Brienne’s eyes were wide. “Lady Catelyn?”

The Blackfish subsided. “What was left of her. She was not … she was not Catelyn, not anymore. And her vengeance … it would have consumed the world, if I hadn’t ended it.”

Brienne’s grip on his arm eased, changed. “I’m very sorry, ser. Lady Catelyn was a great lady, and very brave. We have all faced the dead wearing familiar faces. It is no easy thing.”

A long pause, and then the Blackfish nodded. “It is. No easy thing. So I am now Commander of the Goldcloaks?”

“And Master of Laws, if you accept.”

“Why does _he_ get a choice?” Jaime said, and then winced, as if a foot had connected with his knee.

“I don’t know much about the law,” Brynden Tully said.

“What do you know about justice?” Tyrion asked.

The Blackfish grinned. “More than you, Lannister.”

“Debatable,” Tyrion said. “But enough, our king says. Will you be King Brandon’s Master of Laws?”

“The raven I got asked me to command the Gold Cloaks.”

“Who fall under the jurisdiction of the Master of Laws. My brother and Grand Maester Tarly are proposing a fairly revolutionary revision of the operation of justice throughout the realm.”

The Blackfish listened while Jaime and Sam between them laid out their plan for a single set of laws to be applied equally to all, lords, bannermen, and the smallfolk. Davos listened as well, thinking that it sounded a great deal better for the likes of the people he’d grown up with, but the bannermen wouldn’t let their lords agree to it, even if the lords would.

He said as much, when they were finished, and to his surprise the Blackfish shook his head.  “Wouldn’t be so sure. We’ve all heard the stories about this lord or that one taking indecent liberties with his bannerman’s bride on her bedding. Or demanding heavy tithes of the harvest against winter and doling out meagre rations when it comes. I think there’s more than one or two of the smaller houses that would agree to something in between obedience and rebellion, in those cases.”

“A Great Council,” Tyrion said. “In … two months?”

Sam nodded. “We should have enough of the building work completed by then.”

The Blackfish frowned. “So I have two months to build the city watch up to be able to keep the peace in a city full of every feuding house in the realm?”

“Better get busy,” Davos advised.   

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that’s my explanation for why neither the Blackfish nor Lady Stoneheart appeared in the show after Riverrun. Also, I really couldn't come up with a solution for the Dothraki, so as far as this story is concerned, they just ... I dunno ... went away?


	17. Jaime VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lords have begun to assemble for the Great Council ... (aka 'two months later')

 

“Seven fucking Hells, I hate politics!” Jaime flung himself down in the chair across from Tyrion.

“But dear brother, you’re so good at it.” Tyrion poured wine into a goblet and pushed it across his desk. “This helps.”

Jaime let his head hang back with a groan. “How does making myself even slower of wit _help_?”

“It doesn’t help the politics, it helps to make it bearable. How did you get on with Stannis Leygood?”

Jaime reached for the goblet with his good hand while he made an equivocating gesture with his golden right. “He likes the idea of potentially having the king’s backing against Lord Bronn. He did make the rather salient point that the king’s backing would do him precisely no good without the king’s armies.” He sipped the wine, and pulled a face. “What is this?”

“Wet, and alcoholic. Aside from that I do not know.”

Jaime put the goblet down. “Well, I refrained from pointing out that the whole scheme was a backdoor entry to the king having his _own_ army, since that seemed counterproductive. I said instead that with the Lords of the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Westerlands and the Stormlands all in strong support, the king can call sufficient banners to enforce his law, when necessary.”

“Do we really want to have another war?” Tyrion asked.

“The last thing I want is another fucking war,” Jaime snapped. “But we’re going to have one, in our lifetimes, and it’s my job to make sure we’re on the winning side of it.”

“And do we have the vote of House Leygood?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll put him in the _no_ column, then,” Tyrion said.

“Is there no _maybe_ column?”

Tyrion shook his head. “The only people whose word you can count on in these circumstances are the ones who tell you to your face that they’re going to vote against you. Who have we lost from the Westerlands?”

“None of them will tell the Lord of Casterly Rock to his face that they’ll vote against his wishes, but Lefford won’t look me in the eye.”

 Tyrion wrote the name down. “It will be close.”

“When’s the vote?”

“Three days.”

“You’d better make a bloody good speech,” Jaime said.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Big brother, if you don’t know the outcome before the meeting starts, you’re in the wrong line of trade.”

“I _am_ in the wrong line of trade. I’m a swordsman and a soldier, not a fucking political mastermind. That was father, and you.”

“Father wasn’t half as clever as he thought he was, and you’re twice as clever as you believe.” Tyrion tapped his quill against the parchment. “If the great Lord Tywin had thought twice and three times about slaughtering the Starks –”

“Robb Stark would have won the war,” Jaime said. “Your head and mine would have been among those on spikes, don’t forget.”

“No, he would have won several more battles, but he wouldn’t have won the war. He was an excellent general but not a particularly wise king. There would have been no need to give the Boltons Winterfell and the Freys Riverrun. Stannis would never have made common cause with Robb Stark, and we could have manoeuvred that stiff-necked bastard into a confrontation with him and watched them cut each other to pieces.” Tyrion shrugged. “With our army to mop up what was left over. Then offer fair terms, and watch peace ensue.”

Jaime shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“It might have. It wasn’t tried, that’s my point. I’ve nothing against a tidy assassination, but guest right?” Tyrion shook his head. “A step too far.”

“So speaks a kinslayer,” Jaime pointed out.

“Jaime, if neither guest nor host can trust they can be safe from each other, normal travel, normal communications, normal negotiations, become impossible. Whereas if kinslaying becomes a fashion, the biggest problem that causes people is that they have to worry about not being shits to their families, and honestly, given our family, would that be a bad thing overall?”

Jaime snorted. “Trust you to have a way to turn murdering our father into a public service.”

“Yes, well, I don’t intend to try to work it into my argument for a new legal system,” Tyrion said. “How’s Ser Brienne?”

Jaime blinked, and frowned. “I haven’t seen her since the Small Council meeting this morning, which is when you saw her. Why?”

Tyrion sighed, and shook his head. “I’m not talking about her general health, Jaime, since she seems to be in the pink of it. Are you and she …”

“Tyrion, if you’re asking about subjects that are none of your business –” Jaime could hear an edge of anger in his own voice.

“I’m not, I’m not,” Tyrion said quickly. “Are you _happy_? Is _she_ happy? I admire her, and I love you, and I would like to know that life is good for the both of you.”

“Is there gossip?” Of course there was gossip. This was the Red Keep, its life-blood was fucking gossip. Some servant would have seen her leaving his room far later than propriety demanded. “Is her reputation –”

“People are rather confused,” Tyrion said. “On the one hand, Brienne is a lady. On the other, she’s a knight. No-one is entirely sure which set of standards to hold her to, and the fact that she’d thoroughly thrash anyone who slandered her has them tending to choose the latter. For the moment. But you might want to consider marrying her, if she’ll have you.”

Jaime sighed. “She’s forgiven me, but I’m not sure we’re at the marrying point.”

“Then, brother mine, and I can’t believe that this advice is going to come from _my_ lips, you should probably stop fucking her until you are.”

“You’re right,” Jaime said flatly. “I can’t believe that advice came from _you_.”

“I’m delighted that you’re happy, and I’m delighted you’re finally fucking a woman you’re not even slightly related to, but some idiot is going to say something sooner or later and while Brienne might have the self-control not to challenge him with naked steel, you, Jaime, are a great deal more impulsive.”

Jaime glared at him. “And you think I’d lose.”

“I think it would be a political nightmare of truly huge proportions when you won,” Tyrion said. “Now. Gulian Qorgyle.”

“Oberyn Martell’s foster-brother? There’s a man to love us.”

“That’s how we’ll get his vote. If these laws had been in effect, father would have been compelled to hand Gregor Clegane over for trial. Oberyn would have had the justice he wanted, and not at the cost of his life. Go talk to him.”

“ _You_ go talk to him,” Jaime said.

“I’m not pretty enough to persuade him.”

“There are some sacrifices I’m not willing to make,” Jaime warned.

“You don’t have to have sex with him, Jaime, just be your charming self.”

“Gods.” Jaime heaved himself to his feet. “I will find a way to make you pay for this, little brother.”

“For making you flirt with Gulian Qorgyle?”

“For making me Master of War,” Jaime said darkly, and left Tyrion laughing over his list of names.  


	18. Brienne V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Brienne and Jaime talk. And do other things ...

“I don’t know how you stood it all those years,” Brienne said. She and Jaime were sprawled on his bed, still clothed. _And likely to remain so – I didn’t know it was possible to be this tired, just from standing around._

Jaime ran his fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her neck. “Stood what?” he asked.

Brienne raised her head from his shoulder. “Being responsible for the king’s safety when the court’s full of people who might want to kill him.”

Jaime smiled. “Well, for most of that time, I wasn’t Lord Commander. When I was, I didn’t do a particularly good job. And I wasn’t Lord Commander all that long.” His fingers worked at the base of her skull. “And we had a full Kingsguard, although some of them weren’t worth much, and I can’t remember a Great Council quite so full as this one.”

“Tyrion says –”

“Do not tell me what Tyrion says,” Jaime said darkly, and Brienne snorted with laughter. “I am currently planning an elaborate revenge on Tyrion.”

“No, you aren’t,” Brienne said confidently.

“Oh, but I am,” Jaime said. “But out-thinking my little brother takes time.”

“Qorgyle seems quite taken with you,” Brienne said innocently, and Jaime groaned.

“The Stranger take Qorgyle, although not until he’s voted in favour of Tyrion’s proposal.”

Brienne curled her fingers in his shirt. “Your proposal, Jaime. _Your_ proposal.”

“King Brandon’s proposal, presented by his Hand, Lord Tyrion,” Jaime said.

“Does it bother you? That they get the credit for your idea?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jaime said. “I’m perfectly happy standing at the back of the room and watching my brother make the speeches. He’s better at it than I am.”

“I’ll try not to let it bother me, then,” Brienne said.

Jaime chuckled. “Are you feeling slighted on my behalf, my Brienne?”

“A little,” she admitted. “You worked so hard – you’re still working so hard.”

His hand ran gently over her back. “I’m content to be remembered as a swordsman, not a statesman. Besides, if Tyrion takes the credit, he’ll also get the blame if it turns out to be a disaster.”

Brienne raised her head again, and propped herself up on her elbow. “It won’t be a disaster, Jaime, it’s a wonderful idea.”

“Loyal Brienne.”

“Clever Jaime,” she countered.

Jaime smiled at her. “You should go.”

“It’s not that late.”

“People are talking,” Jaime said.

“If I cared about what people said behind my back, or to my face for that matter, I’d still be on Tarth.”

“And I’d be dead,” Jaime said. “If you hadn’t been there, there’s no way Lady Catelyn would have sent me back to King’s Landing. The Blackfish would have had my throat slit after the Red Wedding.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “But you do care, Brienne. You only pretended indifference. And I won’t have you hurt. You don’t know the ways of courts. You don’t know how cruel they can be.”

“This is not Robert’s court, or Joffrey’s. It’s King Brandon’s.”

“It has the same sort of people in it, though, at least at the moment, with all the houses large and small gathered in. They’ll talk about you behind your back, but just loud enough for you to hear, believe me. You’ll be the Kingslayer’s whore. The So-Called Maid of Tarth. Sally Lannister.”

“And what will they say about you?”

“Nothing. I’m a man. It’s not fair, but it’s how it is.”

“So you want me to shun your bed until the Council is over?”

“ _Want_ is perhaps not the word I’d use,” Jaime said. “But of two unpleasant alternatives, it’s the most bearable.” He paused. “Or you could agree to wed me.”

Brienne blinked at him. “Wed you?”

“We could announce our betrothal. Many a couple anticipate their vows.”

“You suggest that we agree to be married so we can continue to sleep together for the next week and a half?”

Jaime went still. “It’s so terrible an idea, then?”

“I’m not sure it’s a sufficiently strong reason,” Brienne said. “I mean, it’s until our last day. What happens when you tire of me?”

Jaime’s green eyes went wide. “When I _tire_ of you?”  

“Men tire of even pretty wives. I don’t think I could stand to have a husband who had … other women.”

“Tire of you,” Jaime said again, but flatly. “What in the Seven Hells are you talking about?”

“I’m not foolish, Jaime,” Brienne said. She looked down at the coverlet. “I know why you’re with me. You need … someone to hold on to you, until you can find your feet. I know what I am to you, and I’m happy to be that as long as you like, but I’m not –” Her next words were lost in a gasp of surprise as Jaime surged up to cover her mouth with his. “Jaime –” she said when he let her speak, and he rolled her over and kissed her silent again.  

“What you are,” he said between kisses, “is the only woman I want, or will want, foolish knight. I love you and have loved you with the better part of myself for far longer than I even understood, and not least because you were wise enough to leave me to drag _myself_ out of the muck. Yes, I want you to hold on to me, and I want to hold on to you, even if I only have one hand to do it with –”

“Oh, stop talking.” Brienne dug her fingers into Jaime’s hair and held him still so she could kiss him at her leisure. He offered no resistance, and when she broke the kiss his eyes were dark and dazed. “Do you truly want to marry me?” she asked, and then sighed. “Jaime. Stop unlacing my breeches and give me an answer.”

“Can I do both at the same time?” he asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know, _can_ you?”

Apparently not, because his fingers stilled. “I love you, and I truly want to wed you, and dwell where you dwell, and hate those who hate you, and love those you love.”

“Jaime,” Brienne whispered, shaken. They were old words, long fallen out of use.

“Fetch Oathkeeper and I will swear it on the blade.”

Brienne’s face hurt, her smile was so broad. “You’ll have to let me up to do that.”

“Ah, then we have a problem,” Jaime said, tugging at her breeches again. “Because I’m not inclined to do that.”

She snorted, got her hands on his arms and reversed their positions so she had _him_ pinned. “Who said you had a say?” As her weight lay on him, Jaime gave a hiss of pain, and Brienne immediately lifted herself off him. “I’m sorry, are you –”

And suddenly she was beneath him again. “Descended from the famous trickster Lann the clever? Yes.”

Brienne probably could have wrestled him off her, but it was hard to do while laughing, and Jaime took full advantage. He had her breeches unlaced and pushed down before she could compose herself to resist him and then he slid down the bed and put his mouth on her and Brienne found herself discomposed for an entirely different reason. His tongue teased her and his fingers curled inside her and Brienne arched up against him, her breath sobbing in her throat. Jaime chuckled, a low thrum passing from his mouth to her tender flesh, and Brienne felt herself rising higher, and higher, and she couldn’t keep her hands from Jaime’s hair, pressing his mouth against her as _please_ and _yes_ and _now_ spilled from her lips and then she reached the sun and pleasure blazed through her, hot and golden.

“Come up to me, come up to me,” she murmured, pulling at Jaime’s shoulders, and he laughed again and crawled up the bed to kiss her with a mouth that tasted of her own pleasure. Brienne reached between them and found him hard and ready for her, fit them together and pushed up to take him inside her. Jaime’s groan was low and guttural, and he set a hard, fast rhythm that was almost painful against her sensitive flesh.

Almost, but not quite, and as Jaime panted and gasped against her ear Brienne felt the heat and need building within her again. She wrapped her legs around Jaime’s hips and rose to meet him and he cried _yes_ and _gods_ and _Brienne_ and she chanted his name as she soared high once again and felt him joining her before they both took the long slow fall back to the bed.

“Brienne.” Jaime raised himself enough to kiss her, although his arms trembled to take his weight. “Marry me, so we can do this whenever we want, for the rest of our lives.” He kissed her again, and then sank back down, shifting a little so his weight was only half on her. “Don’t tell me that’s not a good enough reason.”

“It’s a good enough reason,” Brienne agreed, because it was hard to think otherwise – hard to think at all – as she floated in a sweet sea of ebbing pleasure. “But we should have a long betrothal.”

“How long?”

“A year.”

Jaime lifted himself up enough to stare at her. “A year? A fucking year?”

“For you to be sure.”

He dropped back down against her. “Seven Hells. I survived Catelyn Stark, Cersei Lannister, and the army of the undead, and Brienne of Tarth is going to be death of me.”

“I didn’t say it had to be a _chaste_ betrothal,” Brienne said.

Jaime chuckled. “Alright, then. But if you get with child, we move the wedding up.”

“I might be too old, Jaime.” Brienne frowned. “You need heirs. And if I’m too old …”

“Tyrion can get some,” Jaime said. “And you can adopt a cousin for Tarth. Stop making problems, Brienne. The world has problems enough as it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve adapted the historical oath of fealty for Jaime’s words.


	19. Jaime VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Some politics, and some ... other things.

 

“House Blackmont.” Tyrion’s voice was growing hoarse, but he could still made himself heard throughout the Great Hall. This, of all the Red Keep, had not been touched in the rebuilding: sun struck through the ruined roof and walls and the slag of metal that had been the Iron Throne drew many nervous glances.

Jaime didn’t smile, because it would have been misunderstood, but he wanted to. _My clever little brother._ No man or woman present could escape the reminder. _We live in a different age, now. We have narrowly escaped disaster. Do not be so quick to bring it on us again._

Lady Larra Blackmont rose to her feet. “House Blackmont says aye.”

“House Dayne.”

“House Dayne says no.”

Tyrion showed no reaction, but beside him, Samwell Tarly flinched as he marked the column.

“House Manwoody.”

“House Manwoody says aye,” Mors Manwoody called out clearly, and caused a small stir. _Interesting_. The opponents of the proposal had clearly expected his vote.

Jaime had lost track of the numbers hours ago. He shifted his weight, keeping the blood moving so he didn’t faint – old trick of the Kingsguard Arthur Dayne had taught him, when his duties had involved little more than standing and waiting. _At least I don’t have to wear full plate_. Poor Brienne and the other Kingsguard must be roasting in the warmth, and Jaime well knew the particular agony of being unable to ease an arming doublet on a hot day.

They were on to House Gargalen, which was an _aye_ , and House Dalt, another _no_.

And that, Jaime realised, was that. The Dornish houses had been the last to vote. He watched Tyrion and Sam confer over the parchment, and then Tyrion raised his head. “Lord Greydon of Hammerhorn, you have spoken strongly against this measure. I ask you, on behalf of those opposed, to confirm the results that we may all be sure.”

Lord Greydon stood, and made his way over to the Hand and the Grand Maester. His own maester followed him, parchment in hand – the man had clearly been keeping his own tally. Greydon’s expression was sour, and Jaime felt his pulse pick up. _Have we won?_ He felt a hope and desperation twisting in his stomach, like the moment in a battle when the van was charging down on the enemy line, close enough to see the soldier’s faces, and he was waiting to see the flicker of fear cross them. _Will they break? Will they run? Or will our cavalry break upon them?_

They _had_ won, and won respectably. Brienne wore the proper stiff expression of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but her gaze sought Jaime, and her brilliant blue eyes were bright. Jaime had no reason to hide his relief, and he grinned at her, and then winked, in an unsuccessful effort to make her blush.

And then it broke on him, and his mouth was suddenly dry with terror. _Gods._

_I’m going to have to actually_ do _this._     

He shook the feeling off. _No time_. Tyrion had been relentless in instilling the importance of courtesy to both those who supported and those who opposed them. While the Blackfish didn’t seem to be making much effort, he was at least talking to some of the Riverlands lords, and Davos Seaworthy was making a manful effort with several lords and ladies who were looking him up and down as if they could smell the famous onions on his breath.

_Well, I am a knight, bound to rescue those in distress_. Jaime strode over to the group, paid them a deliberately unironic bow, and clapped Davos on the shoulder. “Ser Davos, are you telling Lord Ashford, Lady Caulfield and Lord Wibberley the tale of your bravery at the Battle of Winterfell?”

Davos stared at Jaime as if he’d grown another head. “No, I –”

“Too modest,” Jaime said, smiling warmly at the others. “When all hope seemed lost, when the dead were at the gates, Ser Davos stood firm, signalling for the trenches to be fired. It made him a target, but he showed no fear.”

“That’s not quite how I remember –”

“I was sure we were lost. I’ve faced many a battle, but I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid. Yet Ser Davos didn’t give up hope. If not for his courage, we would have lost the battle, and the dead would have marched south to the Neck and beyond.” Jaime clapped Davos on the shoulder again. “This man is the reason any of us are alive.”

Davos was quite red in the face. “I only did –”

“All brave men say so,” Jaime said. He gave the others another charming smile. “And excuse us. I have promised others the chance to meet one of the heroes of Winterfell.”

“What are you doing?” Davos muttered as Jaime steered him away.

“Finding you a wife,” Jaime said blithely, making up his mind on the instant.

Davos stopped, and stared at him. “What makes you think I want a wife?”

“Do you have one?”

“I’m a widower, and I’m too old –”

“Then we’ll find you a nice widow – with a dozen children.” Jaime dragged him onwards. “Six fierce girls, to plague your life, and six sweet sons, to be a comfort in your old age.”

“I’m already _in_ my old age.”

“Lord Hunter!” Jaime hailed Eon Hunter of Longbow Hall, and then lowered his voice to tell Davos, “He has a widowed sister who is sweet to look on.”

“Ser Jaime –”

Jaime ignored him, made the introductions, praised Davos Seaworth’s loyalty and courage again and abandoned the Lord of Ships to what, hopefully, would be his fate. He felt light-headed and reckless, as if he’d survived a battle against desperate odds, and he wove his way light-heartedly through the crowd, pausing for a greeting here and a brief conversation there. It was the old game at court, but played for different ends. Once he’d armoured himself in confected disdain for the options of others and armed himself with a cutting wit, treating each encounter as a duel to be won or lost. Now his armour was courtesy and his weapons were compliments, but the conversations were still contests. _Yield, yield, yield to me …_

The crowd thinned. There would be celebrations and commiserations later, but none arranged formally, and none Jaime would be required to attend. He took his leave from the Great Hall, head spinning slightly with the aftermath of adrenaline and a growing fatigue.

“Jaime.” Brienne had followed him and he leaned against the wall until she came level with him. “You won.”

He grinned at her. “We did.”

Brienne’s astonishing blue eyes narrowed, and her eyebrows drew together. She put her hand on his arm. “Jaime, are you drunk?”

“Were they serving wine or ale in there?” Jaime asked. Brienne’s touch was firm, anchoring him, and he recognised the unsteady wildness within him as the aftermath of battle. _But I have fought no battle_. “I’m not drunk. We won.”

“We did.”

An army camp after a victory was a confusing nightmare of the screams of wounded men and the loud songs of those unharmed. Fights breaking out, and men fucking camp-followers in every shadowed corner … Jaime had ignored all of it, save to intervene when one of the women seemed less than willing. He had been faithful to Cersei, had lain sleepless and alone listening to other men celebrate victory and survival, because Cersei was far away, sleeping on silk with a flagon of Dornish Red by her bed.

But Brienne was right here, in front of him, and Jaime cupped his hand around the base of her skull and drew her to him, too quickly for her to protest. He took her mouth with his in a kiss that had a great deal more hunger than tenderness.

Brienne melted against him for an instant, in a clumsy embrace encumbered by her armour, and then pulled back. “Jaime …”

And somewhere behind her, a low murmur, a whisper, just audible. _There’s the_ _Kingslayer and Sally Lannister_ …  

Jaime pulled away from Brienne and set her to the side, fury blazing through him. _Fucking and fighting both. Perhaps I’m finally becoming a proper soldier after all these years, now when there’s no more wars to fight._ Ser Phillip Foote and Lord Lester Morrigen looked startled, as if they hadn’t expected to be overheard, or as if they’d thought Jaime would be too ashamed to admit he’d heard. _Ashamed of Brienne … as if that’s possible_.

He took a long stride forward to face them. “Which of you said that?”

“Jaime –” Brienne said, and it was cold good sense for him to let it go, but his blood was up.

“Which of you?” he demanded again, and Lord Lester’s gaze slid away.

“I meant no offence –”said Ser Phillip.

Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went reeling. “You are speaking of a highborn lady, a knight, and my betrothed, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Ser Brienne.”

Blood, and a tooth, on the marble floor, Ser Phillip coughing and spitting more blood. “Ser, I will –”

“Will what?” Jaime cut in. “Demand to meet me in the yard? Shall I explain to all and sundry that the reason is that I took offence for your lewd remarks against the woman I am going to marry?”

Brienne moved to stand by Jaime said. “Or perhaps _I_ shall meet you, ser. To explain to you why crude remarks about the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard are inappropriate, and unwise.”  

“We did not know you are betrothed,” Lord Lester said. “Truly, Lord Lannister.”

“And you’d speak so of a knight of the seven kingdoms and a highborn lady if she _wasn’t_ my betrothed?” Jaime asked with a sharp grin. “Why, I do believe I’m obliged by my oaths as a knight to take offense, Lord Lester.”

Lester stammered, and backed away, drawing Ser Phillip with him.

Jaime turned to Brienne. Her eyes were bright and dark, her cheeks flushed. _We both won, today. A contest as keen as battle_. He seized her wrist. “Come on.”

He knew the Red Keep. It was no great difficulty to find an empty room, to tug Brienne inside and to kick a chair in front of the door.

Brienne pushed him away with one hand and drew him closer with the other, “Jaime, what are you doing –”

Jaime pushed her up against the wall and parted her knees with his own. “Fucking you, ser.” He got his weight against her, his leg between hers, rocking into the cradle of her body and exulting at her low moan. “That’s it, there you are, that’s it.” He fumbled one-handed at the buckles of her armour and it was only a second before her fingers joined his. Gilded steel clattered to the floor and they both tore at each other’s clothes. “Now, now,” Jaime gasped, finding her slick and ready for him. “Oh, you enjoyed watching me defend your honour, didn’t you?”

“Get inside me,” Brienne ordered, fitting him to her, and Jaime chuckled and complied with a hard thrust that made Brienne gasp and clutch his shoulders. Between what was left of her armour clanging against the wall and Brienne’s rising cries, no-one passing the door could be in any doubt as to what was going on inside the room. Jaime didn’t care. She was his, _his_ , his woman, and they’d won, they’d _won_ , and he took her hard and fast and marked her with his teeth and kissed her until her lips were swollen and red and barely managed to hold on until he felt her tightening and then pulsing around him, and then his release poured through him with the force of the Trident at spring thaw.

They ended up on the floor, still entangled in each other, neither of them able to stand. Brienne clung to him, face pressed against his neck, gasping for breath. Jaime himself could barely summon up the coherent thought or coordination to stroke her hair. Speech was quite beyond him.

“Gods, Jaime,” Brienne said after a while. “How could we be so unwise?”

He chuckled. “I did manage to remember to put a chair in front of the door.”

Brienne raised her head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Jaime kissed her, but gently, slowly, his hunger slaked for now. “We won a major victory and fought someone –”

“You fought someone,” Brienne corrected. “And it wasn’t much of a fight.”

“Bloody satisfying one, though,” Jaime said. “And fighting for no reason and rutting like animals is the done thing, after a major victory. Although this is the first time I’ve given in to the urge.” He kissed her again, and then ran his lips down the lovely long line of her neck. “And as soon as I can stand, I intend to take you somewhere more comfortable and give in to the urge again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book Davos is not a widower and he has living children. Show Davos doesn’t seem to have anyone. And yes, I have shamelessly stolen Jaime smacking someone with his golden hand, and appropriated and adapted what he says, from the books.


	20. Tyrion IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some years later ...

 

“Well, even _I_ can tell they’re good,” Tyrion said, watching the arrows thump home into the straw targets. “Can they swing swords?”

“Not as well as they loose arrows,” Jaime said, leaning on the railing beside him. “But the idea is that the arrows will sap the force of a charge before that’s needed.”

Tyrion turned to look up at his brother. “But why not spend as much time training them with blades?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Because once a man – or a woman – learns the principles of archery, they can practice without a master. Swordplay is different.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Master of War.” Tyrion turned to look out at the archery tournament again. “But why the local contests? Surely anyone who wants to join the king’s army –”

“Do you know how long it takes to make a good archer? With the heavy bow?” Jaime asked. “Longer than it takes to make a good swordsman, talent being equal. The strength needed – I couldn’t draw a heavy bow, when I had both hands, not to any effect, nor could Brienne. Those bows –” He nodded towards the field. “They’re a shadow of what I mean to arm the king’s archers with, in the end. The great bows are not what we’ve seen before, not in recent memory. King Brandon drew the designs. They can punch through plate like a crossbow and fire as fast as any archer. It will take ten years of hard practice for a talented archer to use those bows to full effect.”

Tyrion nodded. “So you start them young.”

“So we start them young,” Jaime agreed. “The six-year-olds who are better than the other six-year-olds get a purse of copper. Their parents encourage them to spend more time in practice. In time the purse is silver, and then gold. And then there’s a nice commission in the king’s army and money to send home –”

“You’re a devious shit,” Tyrion said.

“I’m a Lannister,” Jaime shot back.

“And what does your good lady knight think of this? This elaborate mummer’s farce of children being raised to be soldiers?”

“She thinks it’s rather a good idea that young men and women in the countryside are encouraged to learn how to put an arrow in the neck of an outlaw.”

Tyrion laughed. “That sounds like her, yes.”

Running footsteps behind them made them both turn. Catelyn of Tarth was racing towards them, brandishing a wooden sword. “Father! Uncle! Look what mother gave me!”

Jaime plucked it from her hand. “Never run with a naked blade, sweet.”

Catelyn frowned. “It’s only wood!”

“Form good habits and you won’t have to worry about breaking bad ones.” Jaime gave her back the wooden sword and ruffled her fair hair. “As I know your mother tells you, for I’ve heard her.”

Tyrion turned away to hide his grin. Both Jaime’s daughters rode roughshod over him, and his only successful efforts to instil discipline invariably invoked his wife. _He’s too afraid of becoming our father, not that it could ever happen._ Perhaps if Jaime had married when his father wanted, had married for duty and not for love, he might have been a distant and disinterested father, more concerned with burnishing his reputation as a swordsman than his family.

But Jaime was not that man, not anymore. It was a constant joy for Tyrion to watch his brother’s happiness, which seemed only to increase with each passing year, with Catelyn, and then Joanna, with their first smiles and first steps and first words.

 _And now, first swords._ Tarth and Casterly Rock would find themselves doughtily defended in future years, Tyrion had no doubt. Both daughters seemed likely to have inherited their parents’ stature, and certainly their mother’s fierceness.   

“Uncle,” Catelyn said, rousing him from contemplation. “Do you have time for my lesson?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

She pouted. “You’re much better than Maester Manderson.”

Tyrion chuckled.  “You mean I’m easier to distract. I’ll tell you what – I’ll come find you when my meetings are done and we’ll read the story of Nymeria again. _If_ you can correctly name the words and banners of the Stormlands houses.”

The pout was immediately transformed into a smile. “I will!” Carefully, she put her wooden sword through her belt. “There. It’s sheathed.”

“Now rest your left hand on the hilt, to keep it from tangling your feet when you walk or run,” Jaime said, and demonstrated with his golden hand on his own sword.  “There, that’s it. But don’t run, until you’re used to it. Even an experienced fighter has been known to trip on his own scabbard.”

Catelyn nodded, and carefully and solemnly walked off.

Jaime watched her out of sight with a fond smile Tyrion didn’t think he was even aware of. “Brother mine, you know you can’t teach her yourself. You’ll feel every blow you land, and even I know that there’ll be bruises aplenty as she learns.”

Jaime sighed. “I know. It’s the master-at-arms for them both.”

“The tender mercies of the Blackfish. Well, at least you’ll know they’re being taught properly.”

“And picking up a few new words along the way,” Jaime said ruefully.

Tyrion snorted. “She’s picked those up from you already, I’m afraid. She just knows better than to use them in front of you or Ser Brienne. Come on. Time for the Small Council.” Jaime groaned. “It won’t be that bad. Ser Davos is back from the Vale.”

“With his family?” Jaime asked, and smiled at Tyrion’s nod. “Good, the girls will be pleased to see them again.”  

“Yes, there will be a Wildling horde of screaming hoydens pelting down the corridors of the Red Keep again in no time.” Tyrion was unsure of what role Jaime had played in the match between Davos Seaworth and pretty, kind Marigold Hunter, but his brother had certainly looked pleased with himself at the news, and grown only more smug when Marigold’s two sons both sent their daughters to be fostered with House Seaworth at court. _Davos is even more besotted with those girls than Jaime is with his own daughters_.

Jaime could take the stairs that led to the council room two or three at a time, but he dawdled, considerate of Tyrion’s shorter legs and slower pace. “And when will you be adding to the horde?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I wouldn’t do a woman the discourtesy of inflicting myself on her.”

Jaime touched his shoulder. “Little brother, it would be no discourtesy. Many a woman loves wit and wisdom, and you’ve plenty of both. Why, Alys Erenford was singing your praises the other day.”

Tyrion tipped his head back to frown at his brother. “You seem determined to become a match-maker in your old age. Davos – I _know_ you had something to do with that. Now I come to think of it, you introduced Bronn to _his_ lady as well.”

Jaime shrugged. “Someone had to run Hightower, and Asha Harlaw has the skills to do it and the spine to make Bronn heed her.”

“And now me. Is no-one safe from your meddling?”

“I want you to be happy, Tyrion,” Jaime said, with such quiet sincerity that Tyrion was momentarily lost for words.

“I _am_ happy,” he said, recovering. “I have my work, my books, my nieces, my big brother and his bigger wife.”

“Then make _me_ happy, and give me some nieces and nephews to dote on,” Jaime said. “It’s unfair of you to put the burden of providing the Lannister line of succession entirely on me.”

“I’m sure we can dig up a cousin or two somewhere if we look hard enough,” Tyrion countered. “Or a bastard to legitimise.”

“Or you could talk to Alys Erenford at the next banquet instead of quietly drinking yourself into a stupor in the corner,” Jaime shot back.

“I don’t even know what Alys Ereford looks like.”

“Dark eyes, dark hair, sweet smile, and a surprising facility for bawdy songs,” Jaime said. “She’s often to be found in the library, I’m told, and is said to be writing a history of the War of the Five Kings.”

They reached the top of the stairs and Tyrion stopped to look up at Jaime again, eyes narrowed. “You’re making at least some of that up.”

“I’m not,” Jaime said. “Exert yourself to charm her, little brother. You might find it a surprisingly easy task.”

In fact, once the meeting was concluded and the rest of his day’s business attended to, Tyrion was not entirely surprised to find that Alys Ereford had been invited to dine with Jaime and Brienne, and was engrossed in a book with Catelyn and Joanna when he arrived.

“I see my place has been usurped,” he said, and Alys jumped up to curtsey.

“Lord Tyrion, forgive me –”

“For entertaining my nieces?” Tyrion asked. “Hardly an offence. And please, my lady, the only title I own in these chambers is _uncle_.” He made his way over to them. “What are we reading?”

“Children of Summer,” Alys said, sitting down again as Catelyn and Joanna jumped up to overwhelm Tyrion with their hugs.

“Have you been to the Summer Isles, uncle?” Joanna asked.

“No, I have not,” Tyrion said.

Catelyn frowned. “But you’ve been to everywhere in the world!”

Tyrion chuckled. “I have been to very few places in the world, and I am far too busy these days to hope to see many more.”

“When I’m grown, I’ll go to them all, and come back and tell you about them!” Joanna declared.

“You can’t!” Catelyn said. “You’re the heir of Casterly Rock! I’ll go.”

“You’re the heir of Tarth!” Joanna countered.

“Your mother has been the heir of Tarth most of her life,” Tyrion said. “And did whatever she chose to do regardless. So can both of you. Now. Come sit with me quietly so I can hear about the Summer Isles.”


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is, indeed, an afterwards.

 

In fact, it was neither Joanna Lannister nor Catelyn of Tarth who enlivened Tyrion’s old age with tales of wonder and adventure beyond Westeros, but his daughter Arya Lannister and her low-born husband Justin. Joanna and Catelyn and their brother Robb’s adventures were within the Six Kingdoms and in the North, but no less exciting than their cousin’s travels. Lyanna Lannister never stirred from home at all, because she refused to be more than arm’s length from a quill and inkpot, but in her time as Mistress of Whispers all the news of all the lands passed through her hands. Her brother Jaime, however …

Ah, but theirs are stories for another time and another telling, tales of danger and daring, of spies and subtlety, of fierce fights and fast friends. Let us leave _this_ tale here, on a calm spring evening, with a clever woman reading stories to a clever man, and to two brave girls who have known nothing in their lives but peace and family and safety.

And with two battle-scarred knights, fingers entwined, watching over those they love.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we leave them, happy and at peace. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment if you did.


End file.
